Knight of the Heart
by Jarl of the North
Summary: Once upon a time, there was an heir to a mighty King, who adored her father greatly. Upon learning of her heritage, she tried to gain his acknowlegement... and was ultimately rejected. But... say one thing changed long before this could happen. Certainly, one small pebble couldn't change the entire flow of the river of time... right? AU Collab with Batomys2731 on DA
1. A Small Change of Events

KOTH Chapter 1 Author's Notes

Batomys 2731 and I do not own own TYPE-MOON or Fate or any properties thereof. Trust me, if we did, we'd have a lot more localizations than we currently have.

...

* * *

 _Fate is a rather fickle thing. All it takes is one minor change to alter the entire course of history. The claims that one might make that you cannot alter a river, no matter how many pebbles you toss into the roiling waters?_

 _They could not be farther from the truth._

 _If anything, reality is more fickle and subject to change than anything else. Change the painting hanging in a room, and what might have been a pleasant night with a conversation piece could be reduced to a vicious argument that destroys a friendship._

 _Should that special someone opt to walk through the gardens instead of past a pair of men, and what would have been a quarrel over lovers instead remains a seemingly unbreakable bond._

 _Indeed, it's like that saying;_

 _For want of a nail, the shoe was lost._

 _For want of a shoe, the horse._

 _For want of a horse, the message._

 _For want of a message, the battle._

 _For want of a battle, the war._

 _Don't believe me? Do you think that such changes are inconsequential, in the end?_

 _Heheh… well, what do you say we make a change? A small, minor change… and see how "inconsequential" that change is._

 _Let's say we give a minor travelling inconvenience to a certain woman…_

* * *

The bitter chill of winter had already begun to set in.

She could see her breath in the cold evening air, steam fading into the ever-darkening grey of the sky above without so much as a trace. The wind ran through the dying trees like a mischievous child, its faint whispers accompanied only by the rustling leaves that danced low across the ground.

The first frosts had already come some weeks earlier, much earlier than what had been anticipated; the people of Britain had found their harvest being cut painfully short by the rapidly approaching winter, many of their remaining crops abruptly killed by the sudden snap of cold. It would be a hard year for the country, without a doubt.

It was almost a pity that the woman hadn't opted to take advantage of it.

But no.

Winter was not one of the tools by which she would claim her desires.

The road, usually either thick with dust or caked in mud, was like cold stone – hard and brittle, whatever moisture that might have been present turned to ice within the earth. She grit her teeth as the wagon tossed and jostled, a normally smooth, if boring ride turned into a truly irritating test of her patience. If it hadn't been for the fact that she had used up much of her stamina in a recent endeavour for materials, she'd be walking right now.

Huddling in her cloak, she did her best to ignore the cold and the constant bouncing of the wagon. If there was one thing that was beneficial about all this, it was that she was all but alone; not many people were willing to travel in this weather.

She only barely registered the slow creak of the wood before it was followed by an abrupt snap. She threw her arms out just in time to grab hold of the side of the wagon as it tipped, the seat beneath her rising; she felt pain jar up through her hips, hissing in pain.

"Ah, shite!" the voice came from the front of the wagon, the man directing it leaping down from his seat to the side.

The woman felt her eyes narrow as she stood, and descended, not making so much a sound as she moved. Not even the wood creaked under her footsteps, nor did she shift any dirt in her path.

This was an interruption she was not appreciating.

When she drew up beside the coach, it became clear what the issue was; one of the wagon's wheels had collapsed under its own weight, the old wood broken into splinters.

"I knew I should have replaced that bloody wheel!" he cursed, then looked at the woman, "… I'm sorry, miss, but-"

"This isn't something you can fix," her tone was colder than the air around them.

He lowered his head, "I'm afraid so. We're going to have to turn back – get some of the boys to come out here with horses to retrieve it later."

"What about your horse?"

"Pardon?"

"Your horse. We can continue the journey on it."

He shook his head, "No, miss. That horse hasn't carried anyone for fifteen years. A draught horse, that one is – good for burden, but not fit for riding. Besides, I've no saddle."

"We can make do," she spoke, "This wouldn't be the first time I've ridden bareback."

"I'm sorry, miss," he insisted, "But that isn't an option. We'll just have to turn back and continue in the morning," he dug into his pocket, and took out several coins, counting through them, "I'll even give you your coppers back – give you a ride back out as soon as me wagon's fixed."

Turn back?... no. That was out of the question. She needed to be back in her workshop by tonight. Tired as she was, walking wasn't an option, especially not with the cold sapping even more of her strength. Night was already falling, and she was in no mood to deal with any wild beasts; they were less likely to attack a large wagon than a single small person (she'd already driven off all the bandits within miles of her home some time ago).

She glanced at the man beside her, who was holding out the coins she had given him earlier as payment for the ride. It wouldn't take much to force him into compliance; minor hypnotism, or perhaps the threat of her dagger in his belly.

She glanced at the draught horse, then gave a low curse; the thing was large, far too big to comfortably ride even if they had a saddle. Riding, even as a passenger, took energy – energy she simply didn't have at the moment.

But she could not, would not wait another day to return to her workshop. She _couldn't._ She had to make it back tonight.

Finally, she looked at the wheel of the wagon, broken, rendering the entire contraption lopsided. Gritting her teeth, she knew she only had one option if she wanted to be home before the night was through.

Raising her hand, she reached deep, deep into the wellspring at her core; a wave of overwhelming heat flowed out and into her limbs, rendering the cold a moot point, at least for the moment. Then shadows began to dance along her fingertips, shadows where there should have been none… and they began to grow, thickening, darkening, and finally rising, giving way from insubstantial shade to a physical blackness, tendrils dancing in her hand like a flame.

She paid no heed to the bewildered coach, merely stepping forwards and tipping her hand and letting the shadows fall to the broken wheel. They immediately set to work, picking up every last splinter of wood and slowly forcing everything back into place; the wagon slowly rose with each piece set in place, until finally, it stood once more, solid as a rock.

The woman glanced back at the coach, "Now we can continue."

"…you… you're a… a…"

"What I am makes no difference."

"You-you're a Witch!"

"What of it?"

The coach had begun to back away, clearly terrified by the woman before him. He seemed about ready to sprint, but abruptly, shadows rose up from the ground and gripped him by the ankles. He tripped, fell, and was dragged back to the woman's feet with all the effort of a child dragging around a toy duck on a string, unable to pull away out of a mix of fear, bewilderment, and simply being bound in place.

The woman leaned down, gripped his shirt by the collar, and glared into his eyes, a minor hypnotism spell immediately kicking in; slowly, the man began to calm, his eyes growing hazy as the memories of the last few minutes were eaten away by the spell. Before long, he seemed to be in a dreamlike state, awake, but senses clearly dulled.

Finally, she released him, and he fell back to the ground, the shadows gone. He groaned, "What… what happened?"

"We hit a rock, and you fell to the ground. I've been trying to wake you up for some time now."

"Did I?" he frowned, but ultimately pulled himself to his feet, "Sounds like I owe you an apology. I don't mean to hold you up at all, miss."

"You can apologize by getting me as close to the old fortress as you can."

"Ahright," he made his way back to the wagon as the woman climbed back to her seat, "Why do you want to go there, anyways? Place hasn't been lived in since the King's siege of it all those years ago."

"That's none of your concern."

"… I guess it ain't."

The rest of the journey proved uneventful for the woman…

* * *

It was so sudden - a flare of light where there was once only black sliding over black with the subtlety of a serpent - he barely had time to react as his wards were triggered so abruptly. To the unknown eye, it would appear that Ser Merlin had accidentally burnt himself or been struck aside the head by an unseen object. With a grimace, he tried to recover and was now struggling to regain his bearings.

The constant search for Morgana's whereabouts had been a task imposed on him by the King, one that he had carried on dutifully and without complaint. Weeks had turned into months without success in finding the elusive Witch, so thorough she was in erasing her trail. Even for his abilities, Morgana had proven herself a troublesome foe to catch.

So why was she so suddenly giving her location away, using enough power that even a novice could notice her whereabouts?

A moment longer he needed to recover in full, then another to cast a much more subtle scrying spell over the location the Witch had cast her magic. Given the recklessness of the Witch's spells, he suspected she would have been in conflict, either with beasts from the forest or perhaps one of the patrols still enduring in their duty in spite of the cold weather.

He was surprised to discover neither suspicion was the case. She had simply repaired a broken wheel on a carriage, then erased the memories from the driver to continue on her way away from the cities... but to where, he couldn't determine yet.

A discovery like this was interesting to be sure, and one that he had been waiting for quite some time... but was it worth alerting the King now? Or would it be better to wait, discover where exactly the Witch was headed? Morgana wasn't the kind to use her magic without justifiable cause. Repairing a wooden carriage was hardly cause for such a display of power.

Both options had their respective merits, as well as their drawbacks. What a conundrum...

There was also the matter of time to consider, both present and future. A simple rift in the timeline could easily tear apart a carefully crated story. If he rushed ahead unwisely, then years of preparation and watching over the land would be wasted because he too had been careless with magic.

It would not be the first time he had chosen to conceal his findings from his King. Nor would it be the last, assuming the timeline followed the path he had foreseen.

Another ward triggered, this time - thankfully - without nearly blinding him in the process. His attention was again drawn to watching over Morgana, who evidently decided her driver was still moving too slow in taking her further north... Just what was provoking her into such foolishness? Whatever she had in mind, she wanted to reach her destination with all possible speed, and was willing to take great and greater risks to counter the poor conditions of a rapidly approaching winter.

Perhaps it was for the best to report this development to the King after all. Morgana was not exactly being subtle with her magic at the moment. Without apparent reason from what he could tell. There had to be a objective they hadn't thought of, else Morgana would not have been so easily snuffed out.

Besides, the search had been trying King Arthur's patience, especially after several months without success. It would not do if another came to the King and reported something he had already learned about earlier.

He left his scrying spell active as he departed for the main hall. If Morgana reached her destination, he would be the one to report it. Perhaps a closer investigation with the help of his fellow Knights might shed light on why the realm's most dangerous Witch was suddenly acting like a fool.

* * *

The room was dead silent.

Though not an uncommon occurrence, this day, the silence bore a heavy chill – a tension not unlike the cold of the night beyond the windows, the first snows of winter gently powdering the stone.

A total of twelve figures sat at the table – an ornately carved, perfect circle depicting images of battle and glory, a true masterpiece that could only be produced by the finest of craftsmen.

But that was hardly what they were paying heed to.

None of them made so much as a sound as they waited, the unease enough to drive a man mad. All they could do was glance at their King, and then to one another in concern, wondering exactly what could have caused him to call a meeting at this hour.

Finally, the door swung open, and a young man clad in white slipped in, humming a gentle tune as he carefully swung it shut with his foot, white hair cascading down his shoulders. Glancing about the room, he smiled, taking a step towards the table, "I take it that everyone is here?

"Everyone," the King intoned, her voice as cold as ever.

"Good, good," he glanced about. Gawain and Lancelot were as sharp as ever, like a lion and a panther sizing him up, ready to strike – and really, why shouldn't they be, this early in the morning? He didn't typically like being woken up early either. And there sat Tristan, eyes closed… for all his magic and clairvoyance, he could never tell when that man was awake and attentive or just asleep.

 _'Back on track, Merlin,'_ he coached himself, shaking free of his wandering thoughts, _'Arturia brought you here for a reason.'_

Ser Kay leaned forwards in his seat, the dark bags under his eyes matching his dark hair and sullen expression perfectly as he glared at the Court Mage, "Ser Merlin. If this has something to do with you, it had better be good."

"Can't I get a moment to enjoy the suspense? It isn't often all of us are in the same room at the same time these days," Merlin teased, lips splitting into a grin.

At this, he felt the chill in the room grow and focus, all the Knights' expressions seeming to sharpen into the stares of particularly irritable wolves. Seems they weren't in the mood for his particular brand of humour…

"Merlin," the King's voice ran out, erasing all the irritation from the room… as well as any sense of mirth the Mage might have had, "You told me you had something of great importance to report."

He felt his expression turn into a pout, then he sighed, spinning his staff slightly, "As you wish. I was hoping to ease you all into this; it's not exactly a weather report," he gestured to the window for emphasis… then glanced outside, "Oh, hey, it's snowing!"

"Merlin," though the King's tone had not changed even in the slightest, there was a slight hint of warning in it – a clear demand to get on with it.

He sighed again, returning his attention to the King, "I've finally managed to find Morgana."

He wasn't surprised when he was met with yet more silence – and once again, he couldn't blame them. He didn't pretend to understand any of them personally, but he did understand that Morgana was a heavy subject for everyone at the Round Table, for one reason or another. Merlin could see Gawain's blue eyes being cast down towards the floor, obscured by his short blond locks his armoured hands clenching into fists with audible clicks… the man was likely thinking about the Green Knight – one of Morgana's sickest attempts at damaging the Knights of the Round to date, twisting a man into a monster.

"… how did you manage this, after months of repeated failures, Ser Merlin?"

Ah, that would be Ser Palamedes. Merlin turned to look at the darker skinned Knight, his smile returning, "She made a rather foolish mistake earlier tonight. She used magic without preparing a proper ward to keep me from seeing it."

The Knights all seemed to have questions they wanted to ask, but one by one, they turned their gazes to the King. For a long moment, Arturia remained silent, her fingers interlocked and expression blank. Finally, she stated, "I suppose the most important questions now are where she was and why she would use her magic so recklessly."

Recognizing the statement for what it was, Merlin had to swallow the urge to offer a witty retort. All of the Knights had issues with their senses of humour, but Arturia was like a brick wall, and had been ever since her early days as a King; and right now, she was in even less of a mood for jokes than usual. Which was really saying something when you consider how humourless she was normally-

 _'Again, Merlin. Get it together!'_

He shrugged, his internal dialogue hidden from everyone present, "Earlier tonight, I saw her travelling along a road by wagon. The wagon had been damaged to the point where it was unable to continue – one of its wheels had basically been reduced to splinters."

"… and what does that have to do with Morgana using her magic without wards?" it was Ser Percival that spoke this time, "Was she attacked?"

"See, that's the strange part," Merlin felt his expression grow more serious at this, "She used her magic to repair the wagon and made the coach forget everything he saw – all so she could continue her journey without delay."

"… that seems like an extremely foolish move," Ser Lancelot rubbed at his chin, dark eyes narrowed, "Using magic when she likely knows she's being watched?"

"It could be a trap," Ser Kay pointed out, "An attempt to draw one or more of us out. It wouldn't be the first time."

"I doubt it," Ser Gareth seemed especially thoughtful, his youthful, exceptionally feminine face perfectly matching his youthful, exceptionally feminine voice, his eyes of blue and sandy blonde hair matching his older brother's almost perfectly, braids aside.

"And why is that, Ser Gareth?" This time it was Ser Gaheris.

"Because Morgana is a lot of things. Straightforward has never been one of them," Gareth frowned, "Even when the bait was obvious, she's never been so brazen as to use herself for something like this. This seems more like a mistake."

"A very foolish mistake, at that," Ser Tristan finally stated – so he _was_ awake! His long red hair shifted as he raised his head, expression as unchanging as Arturia's herself.

"I still don't like it. I think it would be better to err on the side of caution," Kay again. He's certainly grown from the reckless little child Merlin once knew him to be – the difference was like night and day.

"Merlin. Your conclusion?" Arturia spoke once more, silencing the others.

The Mage frowned a bit more deeply at this – even _he_ wasn't entirely sure what was going on. If everything was in accordance with his clairvoyance, then this should be about the time when Morgana's… project was undergoing its last bit of fine-tuning before the final gears of his prophecy began to turn. But if so…

"… to be honest, Arthur," he began, using the petite woman's given name rather than her true name – not everyone knew her true nature, after all, "I would say that this is an act of impatience. Something has Morgana on edge, enough to push her to move along on her journey rather than keeping to caution as she usually would."

Merlin knew _that_ would have the attention of every Knight present.

"Impatience…" the dark, sullen tone came from the figure clad in dark armour, his hair slicked back and his skin pale – Ser Agravain.

"Well, it will prove her undoing," Gawain finally declared, eyes like steel, "We have an approximate location of where she is. If Merlin would be so kind as to direct us to where he found her, I can physically track her and do the rest. We can finally be rid of this Witch once and for all."

"With all due respect, Ser Gawain, it would be foolish to act so rashly," it was Lancelot that spoke this time, his dark eyes fixing Gawain with a stern stare, "We cannot forget that Morgana is a powerful Witch. Mistake or not, rushing in will only result in disaster. No doubt she has prepared defences for just such a miscalculation."

"There is also something else to consider," Ser Gaheris' voice was quiet, his expression grave, in contrast to his brothers' – Gawain's fuming anger and Gareth's silent pondering, "What would cause Morgana to abandon her sense of caution to begin with? As Ser Gareth has said, she is not one to be so straightforward. There may be more to this than we realize."

"A greater threat at hand, great enough to frighten the Witch?" Palamedes asked.

"Perhaps."

"Or," Gawain interrupted, "Perhaps another one of her plans. Something bigger, more dangerous than what she's done before – something she wants to ready and test as soon as possible," he was truly itching to hunt her down.

"So on one hand," Ser Bedivere started, "There's a possibility we now have something _worse_ than Morgana on our hands. On the other, there's a possibility that she's planning something big enough for her to abandon her normal habits. Either way, this isn't something we can ignore."

"In other words, we must act quickly," the King intoned. Again, her voice failed to inflect any particular tone, but it still carried an authority like no other. It was a voice one obeyed on principle – not out of any sense of loyalty or affection (though among those present, those certainly existed), but simply because her presence was just that commanding. Her gaze never once left Merlin, "Do you have any idea where she might be going?"

"There are only a few locations around where I saw her that I can think of," Merlin stated, "But given the road she was taking… I'd say the most likely candidate would be the abandoned fortress along the northern road."

"Wasn't that place a frequent hideout for bandits?" Gareth asked.

"It was. We cleared it out several times, but Morgana heavily opposed restoration efforts back when she was a member of King Urien's Royal Court, and I don't need to remind you how strong her influence among the Courts was back then. Eventually, the castle was abandoned altogether, and it became a haven for criminals to hide in. Reports concerning bandit activity came to an abrupt halt about six years ago, but we had more pressing issues at the time, so we never bothered to look into it," Bedivere took a breath, eyes narrowing, "If Merlin is right, then it seems we've finally found out why the bandits disappeared… and why Morgana may have opposed restoring the castle as vehemently as she did."

Merlin fixed his gaze on the King, "Your Majesty?"

Arturia closed her eyes, not so much as letting her breaths make any sound for a long few moments. Finally, she opened her eyes, "Ser Gawain. Ser Tristan. Ser Lancelot," she glanced at each of them as she spoke their names, "I am leaving this task in your hands. I want you to go to the fortress Merlin speaks of and investigate it – in disguise.

"You are not to wear your coats of arms. Your swords are to be carried in non-descript sheathes. And you yourselves will answer to different names along your journey should you happen across anyone else. If Morgana catches wind that three of the Round Table are approaching, she may flee, and this will all have been for nothing."

"Your Majesty," all three stood and bowed at the same time, their actions borderline simultaneous.

"Furthermore," she looked up to her Court Mage, "You are to protect them on their journey, Ser Merlin. You are the only one here with any form of magical prowess, and the only person in Britain who can hope to match Morgana. Wards, disguises – anything you believe may be helpful in this endeavour."

Merlin smiled, giving a somewhat lopsided bow, "As you wish, my King."

She nodded, and then stood, "You will leave as soon as the four of you are rested and prepared. This meeting is dismissed."

With that, each Knight stood, and filed out one by one, returning to their respective quarters. Merlin waited until the last one had left, leaving him alone with Arturia.

"Well… it seems things are about to get interesting."

"Dangerous," Arturia intoned, walking around the massive table to face him.

"Potato, potahto."

"No, Merlin. There is a very distinct difference."

He smiled, "I remember when you would have said that to me."

She glanced at him, expression still cold, "I was a child, then. Now, I am older. Wiser."

"And apparently have lost your ability to smile," he smirked, "I know I told you your story would end in tragedy, but would it kill you to lighten up once in a while?"

Arturia didn't give him an answer this time, instead turning on her heel and starting for the door.

He was about to call after her when he felt something in his head twinge.

It didn't hurt, really. It was more like… a shift. A change in focus, like when the mind moves from one task to the next. He gave a slight grunt as he pressed a hand to his temple; what had just happened?

"Merlin?"

He glanced up again to see Arturia at the open door. Her expression remained cold as ever, but there was something beneath the monotone voice that he had not heard in a very long time; concern, "Are you alright?"

He smiled, "I'm fine, Arturia. Just… slight concerns with my magic, is all."

"Will you be able to perform your duties?"

"I can do that much. Don't start losing faith in me now," he teased.

"… very well," she stated, and pulled into the hall, closing the door behind her.

Merlin paused, then sighed, making the slow return to his own quarters. When he arrived, he shrugged out of his robes and sat on his cot, frowning. Something wasn't right…

Closing his eyes, he activated his clairvoyance; the ability to see all of Humanity. The past, the present… the future…

The future.

He grit his teeth, trying to make sense of the muddled mess that was being presented to him. This… this didn't make any sense. None of it did. The war that would see Camelot's end, the war that would grind the Kingdom and its inhabitants into mere memory…

It was gone.

His eyes snapped open, a sudden shiver of dread running up his spine.

"Oh… horse shit," he whispered, finally realizing what he'd done without ever intending to do so.

He'd changed the future.

He'd changed fate.

* * *

Morgana felt her teeth slate against each other in concentration as her mixture came to a boil, the acrid stench of rotting flesh wafting in and out of her nostrils. One of her many books was open beside her, though at the moment she paid it little heed; her utmost focus was on her current task, the fleshy vat before her continuing to boil, all but disintegrating everything that fell into its depths.

When the appropriate time had passed, she took a pair of tongs, and reached into the boiling acid, heedless of the sweltering heat that surrounded her arms, and slowly extracted her prize.

She couldn't help but smile at the result – the gleaming object held firmly in her grasp, coated in a thin layer of bile, but nonetheless maintaining a beautifully polished surface.

A Dragon's pearl. One of the very items used to infuse her dear sister with the strength of a Phantasmal Beast of the highest order, and normally very difficult to obtain; after all, in order to get your hands on the genuine article, you would have to slay a Dragon.

Morgana had essentially bypassed that step entirely with this creation; using the stomach of the Dragon Merlin had used to begin with, she had slaved over long hours to examine the process by which these nigh-priceless lacrima were created. Hundreds of thousands of ingredients used over years of experimentation had been lost… but it seemed that she was growing very close, if she hadn't already succeeded.

Before she could move to set it down, however, the small sphere abruptly cracked.

She could never have moved fast enough to stop it. The cracks spread, one turning into two, then four, then eight; within seconds, there were dozens of cracks all running in different directions, and the pearl didn't so much shatter as it did simply disintegrate, the pieces falling away into magically infused dust.

Joy and satisfaction turned to raw frustration, but however much she wanted to, Morgana did not rage or curse. She forced it down, only allowing it to manifest through a single click of her tongue, "Another failure…"

She let out a long, slow breath through her nostrils, sinking into a chair and rubbing at her temple. Her creation already had Dragon blood, that much Morgana was sure of; it had already proven her predictions correct by inheriting dear Arturia's Magic Core.

But that wasn't the problem.

The problem was the Dragon blood's actual interaction between the magics used in the art of creation, as well as Morgana's own blood.

Normally, humans and Dragons proved to be incompatible with one another. Coexistence had proved time and time again to be borderline impossible on nearly every level, from the sociological differences, to the psychology, from the biology, to the sheer difference in strength. Interaction between the two almost always ended in conflict, and by extension the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands of people.

And yet, it wasn't impossible for proof of some twisted marriage of human and Dragon to emerge; that fool from the Burgundian Courts in the east some few decades ago somehow managed to attain nigh invincible battle prowess by bathing in the blood of a Dragon he slew, his skin like Dragon scales – nigh impossible to even scratch.

In dear Arturia's case, Merlin had somehow gone even further, infusing her with Dragon's blood and giving her all the magical strength of the world's strongest Phantasmal Beasts. Indeed, on the battlefield in days long gone, the woman had often been compared to a Dragon in human form, impossible to so much as touch and striking down any and all who would oppose her, single-handedly breaking the spirits of twelve separate Kings through twelve consecutive wars, conquering Britain in one fell swoop.

The promised King indeed…

Morgana shook her head, forcing herself to return to the task at hand. She had assumed that because of the lineage, her creation would have inherited all of Arturia's same traits. Of course, she hadn't been wrong, but Morgana had nonetheless made a miscalculation that she was doing everything in her power to fix.

Put simply, the Dragon blood wasn't properly mixing with Morgana's fairy blood, or the increased magical potential of a homunculus.

Homunculi of any type, even the lowest of the low, still had incredible magical potential through their magic circuits; one of high quality made for combat could be expected to properly face an army and still come out victorious and no worse for wear, provided they were properly trained and equipped. Combining that with Morgana's blood, fairy blood, would create something truly powerful – after all, it was fairies that made Excalibur and its sister swords, Caliburn, Arondight and Excalibur Galatine, and fairies were also capable of magic far beyond what could ever be expected of humans. Even those that didn't learn magic still had plenty of magical energy to make up for it.

Dragon blood should have created something borderline unstoppable when combined with these aspects.

Instead, it was clashing – only slightly, for now, but as time went on, it would slowly grow worse. The combination of magics was simply too much for a mortal body of any type to handle.

In the end, Morgana supposed that she shouldn't have been surprised; humans were fragile, after all. Surprising, certainly. Tenacious, most definitely. But fragile nonetheless – a result of their mortal coil.

That meant she needed to find a way for this body to withstand the incredible energies dwelling within it.

So far, the problem seemed to be rooted in the Dragon blood itself, the magic core's constant magic production interfering with the extraneous (but still exceptionally high quality) magic circuits, slowly overflowing them with prana. It was similar to the result one could expect from trying to compensate for cracks in a massive dam by directing the water into small creeks or streams – the resulting flood would cause catastrophic damage no matter how slow it was.

She stood, and glanced back into the vat. Morgana had been trying to make a Dragon's pearl in hopes of finding a way to regulate the prana overflow – using the pearl to create a runoff point, of sorts. In the meantime, Morgana had also slowed her creation's aging down in hopes of buying the both of them a little bit more time to create a working system; the accelerated aging she had initially intended to implement would, at this stage, only worsen the problem. However, she'd been struggling to find any kind of success in actually making a pearl, and she'd just used her last ingredients in the attempt.

She'd have to leave to gather more.

Sighing, Morgana stepped away from the vat and over to where her creation lay, peacefully asleep. She looked so much like her father when Arturia was an infant; the resemblance was uncanny.

Then again, that was something Morgana had been hoping for when she began this venture.

Smiling, she leaned down, and gently whispered into the small homunculus' ear.

"You're going to be King someday."

With that, she silently pulled away, and swept from the room to find her cloak. Within the hour, a dark shape was fighting against the wind across the grey sky, like a black meteor through the ever falling white.

* * *

Whereas the first snowfall had only just started descending on the land the night before, it appeared now that winter was fully arrived when the four chosen Knights had set out to find Morgana's destination. Twice, they had been forced to take a detour, the main roads too heavily covered with snow and ice to be a safe route for their horses, combined with a close confinement through snow covered trees that was wearing even Merlin's patience thin.

The next day had the opposite problem, with the sun shining so brightly on the fresh snow that they'd resorted to tying strips of layered cheesecloth across their eyes to ward off snowblindness. Their horses broke the path effortlessly, as if just as determined to end this journey as quickly yet safely as possible, until they finally chanced upon roads that were at least marginally cleared by wagon traffic.

Despite the less than desirable start, the journey itself had been remarkable in its lack of combat; save a pack of hungry mountain wolves who they had quickly convinced to seek easier prey, they had encountered nothing to fight. The absence of bandits, in particular, was a welcome respite after facing them daily for so long less than a month ago.

Even so, they knew all too well the reason for the missing bandits now. The image of that dangerous Witch - mercy was not something she gave to those in her way - was etched into their minds. That knowledge lay heavy on them all, giving a grim purpose to their steps, and the first sight of the bluffs of the abandoned fortress was an ominous one.

"… well, there it is," Merlin huffed, wrapping his cloak tighter around his body.

"Not the most hospitable location. This place has clearly been forgotten since the Twelve Wars of Britain," Tristan intoned, "I don't think a single tree has been cut here in two decades or more. Even what's left of the road is overrun with plants and roots."

"What better place to be left alone, but a forgotten corner of the world?" Lancelot asked, eyes narrowed.

"It doesn't matter. We've found it," Gawain's tone was grim, "Now we can get to work."

"Hang on, Gawain," Merlin glanced at him, "We can't afford to rush this. Even a fourth rate Mage knows to ward their workshop against intruders, and Morgana is hardly fourth rate."

"So take things slowly, is it?" Gawain's glare was like the edge of a knife, "Give her time to prepare against us?"

Merlin sighed; it seemed he would have to be more direct, "Gawain, with all due respect… if you had to invade Camelot by yourself, and I were the one defending it, would you say you had the advantage as the assailant?"

This seemed to do the trick. Gawain, startled, opened his mouth to speak… then slowly closed it, having been forced to concede Merlin's point.

Seeing his chance, Merlin continued, "Morgana is almost as powerful of a Mage as me; in some ways, her magical abilities even surpass that of my own. She's not someone that we can afford to take lightly under any possible circumstance."

"… I understand," Gawain finally relented, though his voice betrayed his frustration.

"And we understand you, old friend," Tristan glanced at the Knight, "Morgana has hurt all of us in some way, shape or form. It's only natural to desire justice against her, given the chance. But the fact remains that we must be cautious; we cannot allow rage to blind us to the fact that she is a very dangerous opponent."

Merlin had stopped listening at that point; his eyes were shut, and he had his hand on his crooked staff. After a long moment, he opened his eyes again, "No wards yet… but there is residual magic in the air a ways into the forest. Defences of some kind, in all likelihood."

"We won't make any progress sitting here," Lancelot spoke again, "Let us proceed. Slowly."

In silent agreement, all four began to slowly lead their horses into the woods.

The already dark sky seemed to grow even darker under the shade of the trees; the harsh winds slowed to a gentle breeze, only a light powder of snow falling to the ground from between the many great branches above… but this only served to further enrich the feeling that the four were being watched.

The trees were large – far too large, even if Tristan was correct, and none had been touched in decades. All four of them had been present for a least some of Arturia's conquest of Britain, and there were no forests like this in those days; the trees were winding an thick, the roots alone enough to force the four to take detours around barricades formed from a sudden rise of dirt and snow upon what at first seemed to be a great log. The trees reached dozens of feet high, with so many branches that hardly any snow managed to make it past their grasping reach, and once they had breached the first hundred yards, the Knights would be hard pressed to pick out one that wasn't as big around as a chariot's wheel, if not bigger.

No birds called out. No animals made noise. Even rodents failed to scamper across the snow.

The four felt well and truly alone.

"It's like we've wandered into another world entirely," Gawain breathed.

"An empty world, at that," Tristan said, lip curling downward slightly.

"Stay close," Merlin called back from the lead, "The magic has gotten stronger here. This isn't an ordinary forest anymore."

"Anymore?"

"Morgana's using one of the oldest tricks in the book with this place; anyone who doesn't have a guide gets to wander the forest, forever lost," Merlin spoke, "Even with normal forests, this is a very real danger to the unacquainted. A magical forest like this… you three would never come out alive if you came alone," he glanced back, and couldn't help but smirk, "Well, Lancelot might… if he's willing to give Morgana one hell of a night."

Lancelot was not amused, his eyes narrowing, "I am well aware of the Witch's attraction to me, Ser Merlin. I do not need a reminder."

"Oh, lighten up. It was a joke."

"Then you have exceptionally poor taste in jokes. Then again, this likely surprises no one."

Merlin let out a soft sigh, shaking his head, "Everyone's a critic…"

"No one would have to criticize you if you would shut up and simply move us along," Gawain's tone was particularly scathing today.

"Alright, alright, fine," Merlin's tone finally grew irritable, and then the Mage fell silent. They continued down the path that he determined, weaving around trees, over frozen streams and icy hills, and before long, neither Gawain, nor Lancelot, nor Tristan could make heads or tails of where they'd been. Glancing back, even their horse's hoofprints seemed to fade into nothing, leaving no indication that they'd even been present.

However, abruptly, they came to a halt.

"What is it, Mage?"

"… we're not alone," Merlin's voice was unusually quiet as he reached for his staff.

Immediately, the other three were on guard; Gawain had dismounted from his horse, drawing Excalibur Galatine, the brilliant blue blade gleaming in the little light that was there; Lancelot, scanning the area as best as he could, had his hand on Arondight's hilt. Tristan had unslung his bow and carefully undone his bindings to the saddle, lest he need to leap free of his horse.

They didn't need to see their target to know that something was coming.

They could already hear it.

The sound was like distant thunder.

Faint at first, but slowly growing.

When it emerged from between the trees, its footsteps were like the impact of stones thrown from a catapult; it was only vaguely humanoid, a mass of stone and earth, with dust falling from its form every time it moved. It was broad – in every possible sense, with impossibly thick limbs attached to a torso that was more like a mountain than anything belonging to a living creature, like someone decided to affix oversized limbs to a boulder, and what passed for a head had squashed, squared features, roughly hewn into the stone as though it were an afterthought. But as it moved, more dirt fell from its form, and the better defined its features became.

"A golem," Merlin commented, as though it were an everyday occurance, "And a big one…"

The stone giant pushed into the clearing, the sheer force behind its slow advance enough to shatter one of the trees that stood in its way, pushing the mighty wooden pillar down as easily as if it were a toy. It made no noise, but began to advance upon the four.

"Don't leave the clearing!" the Mage called, turning his horse and making a dash for the edge; he'd need all the distance he could get with this opponent.

The other three acted in perfect sequence; Tristan brought his horse to a gallop and then leaped for the lower branches of one of the trees, pulling himself into a higher position before readying his bow; thankfully, his horse was well trained enough to not immediately flee, instead pulling back to stand beside Merlin, who seemed to have entered some kind of trance.

Lancelot and Gawain, on the other hand, were quick to enter an assault; the former on horseback and the latter on his feet, the two charged the mighty golem, heedless of its massive strength.

Its attempt to strike them was ponderous, and seemed to require the same amount of effort one might take to swat a fly; however, Gawain simply ducked under the attack, his gleaming, holy blade coming up in an arc and biting into the stone.

A normal sword would have simply bounced off the rocks, perhaps even come away with a dulled, dented, or even chipped blade from the clash.

But Excalibur Galatine was no normal sword.

A sister blade of the mighty Excalibur, forged with a shard of the sun itself, Excalibur Galatine's blade screamed through the air and bit into the stone, leaving a slash mark in the golem's side at the waist.

At the same time, Lancelot had leaned to the side to evade an attempt to grab his arm, and retaliated by bringing Arondight down on the golem's shoulder.

Much like Excalibur Galatine, Arondight was a sibling blade to Excalibur, forged by fairies for the purpose of assisting heroes in their time of need. Gleaming silver steel rang as a fist-sized chunk of stone was sent flying, and Lancelot too leapt from his horse as Gawain jumped up upon a large boulder. Side by side, they hurled themselves up and onto the golem's shoulders, and drove their swords down into the stone.

But even as their blades bit deep, they felt a sudden wave of relief wash over them as the effects of the golem's attacks became fully apparent.

It was slow, there was no question of that; provided they had the common sense to move, it was doubtful that the construct could even hit a normal soldier, for how long it took for the statue to complete a single swing.

But its mighty fists both smashed into the ground; the frozen earth cracked, buckling beneath the force of each blow as easily as one might break a thin board of kindling over their knee. Stone and frozen dirt were driven up from the ground in massive splinters, rough and jagged, and the golem slowly pulled its fists from the earth.

As it attempted to reach for the Knights that had scaled its back, Tristan frowned, gently fingering the bowstring of Failnaught. Clearly, this was not something that was intended to take on a small force of elites. This was something that would have been better suited to battling a large band or small army, or even used for siege purposes; Tristan doubted that even castle walls would stand up to blows of that force for very long.

Morgana had been preparing for an attack from an army…

Pushing such thoughts aside, he let his fingers gently strum the many gleaming strings of his bow. Failnaught was a weapon that, at first glance, did not seem like a weapon at all; indeed, to the casual observer, it appeared to be more like a strangely shaped harp, its graceful silver arms affixed with large anchors that stretched a dozen cords of silver between them, all of varying thickness. Even if the strings were strong enough to fire arrows without breaking, the draw weight that would result from all of them being strong enough to do so would have rendered it impossible to use – something beyond the ability of a normal archer to properly utilize.

However, it was never Tristan's intention to fire an arrow.

The soft thrums of his bowstrings were soothing, gently ringing out across the clearing in stark contrast to the effects they had.

There was no visible projectile – after all, what being could possibly see sound?

Nonetheless, the gentle notes immediately turned into screams as spears of pure sound slammed into the statue's chest, high pitched shrieks more akin to a hawk's cries than anything else. A barrage of three, each one dislodging more dust and leaving marks in the stone – no small feat, especially for an archer.

But the statue seemed no worse for wear; Lancelot and Gawain still struggled to maintain a hold on their swords as the golem clumsily reached for them, stumbling about and making it difficult for them to hold on. It briefly lost its balance, and crashed into a tree, sending another one of the great wooden giants toppling to the ground.

"Tch… no effect," Tristan grit his teeth, "Ser Merlin! Whatever you're planning, you'd best do it now!"

Merlin did not respond, still lost in his trance. He murmured under his breath, words of power that were finally beginning to take form. His eyes snapped open, and a word Tristan would not even try to pronounce rang out across the clearing.

Chains of black iron materialized like streaks of dark lightning, thick around as a man's arm and tipped with wickedly hooked claws that dug into the stone giant's body; one it could have broken easily, but one quickly became a dozen, and that original dozen was quickly lost among the ones that followed.

Within seconds the golem was immobilized, the chains around its limbs stretching it out to shape something akin to an X; its struggles only succeeded in rattling the chains, which continued to pull it tighter and tighter, and the Knights thought for a moment that Merlin intended to pull the construct's arms off.

"Lancelot, Gawain!" Merlin shouted, "Arondight, Excalibur Galatine! Minor blasts!"

Without so much as a word of complaint, Lancelot and Gawain redoubled their grips on their swords; within seconds, both weapons had taken on a brilliant glow, Arondight, a bright blue that bordered on white, Excalibur Galatine, a bright orange to match the summer sun.

The tips of both blades then exploded in bright light, dislodging both the Knights and their swords from the golem's back. They gracefully flipped and landed safely in the snow below, and looked up to admire their handiwork; the golem crashed to the ground, its chest and shoulders completely destroyed and its arms severed from its body completely. Merlin released his spell, letting the massive limbs crash to the ground below… but clicked his tongue when the golem still refused to cease its function.

Even after being on the receiving end of such a powerful combination (albeit a greatly limited form of what Arondight and Excalibur Galatine were truly capable of), the giant refused to stay down; it pressed its head to the floor to gather its feet beneath itself once more, and gradually began to rise.

When it finally stood once more, Tristan saw his target; the blast had dislodged the entire chest-piece away from the construct's body, exposing the glow of the magical inner workings that kept the golem going. A glow akin to deep magenta, dozens of symbols etched onto a stone disk…

Gathering all the strings of Failnaught in his fingers, he pulled back to his cheek as hard as he could; he could feel the magical power in the bow readying itself, compressing into a shaft of echoing, contained energy as his arms and shoulders screamed, begging for him to release…

But he held fast.

Only once he was sure of his target, did he release the strings.

This was not the harmonious sound of the harp from before.

This was every note at once, simultaneously echoing in his ears.

What he fired wasn't a mere arrow or even a spear; it was a bolt from a ballista that could fell a Dragon.

The magical stone disk didn't stand a chance.

Indeed, it shattered upon contact, the arrow boring its way all the way through the golem before smashing into the ice behind it.

The statue stood, silent, as though disbelieving of what happened; the hole Tristan had put through its torso was easily the size of a log, and the force behind the blow had left the inner walls almost entirely smooth. If Tristan had known where to aim to begin with, then it was possible he could have ended the battle with that strike alone.

After a long moment, the statue pitched forwards, and smashed heavily into the ground, never to move again.

Silence reigned through the forest as the Knights finally began to relax.

"Well… at least we know a little bit more about what we're dealing with," Gawain huffed, tapping the golem in the head before sheathing his blade.

"Morgana was expecting a larger force," Lancelot spoke, eyes narrowed, "She doesn't believe a small group such as ourselves could navigate this forest well enough to make it to the castle."

"And normally, she'd be right. This place would confound even high level magi," Merlin led the horses over, having resumed his normally happy mood, "She wasn't expecting me to come along."

"Because you were her lover, once?" Gawain challenged.

Merlin shrugged, "Lover, teacher. Or perhaps she never thought I would help Arturia quite like this… which, I must admit, is a fair assessment. I know you don't approve, but I happen to be rather fond of Morgana."

"Then why stand against her?" Tristan pressed.

Again, Merlin simply gave a noncommittal shrug – an infuriatingly neutral gesture that said nothing of his intentions.

Gawain gave a disgusted snort, "You should pick where your loyalties lie, Mage."

"I have," Merlin said simply, "If I hadn't, none of us would be here right now."

"… questioning him won't get us anywhere," Tristan concluded, turning to his fellows, "The fact is, he is here to guide us and assist us against Morgana's magic. He's played his fair share of tricks over the years, but I think it's fair to say that we know whose side he's on – for the moment, at least."

"'For the moment?'" Merlin pouted, "I'm the Court Mage! Don't I get a little bit more trust that that?"

All three Knights turned to stare at him, the expressions of utter deadpan on Lancelot's and Gawain's faces matching Tristan's perfectly.

"… oh, fine," Merlin muttered, looking away, "Just get on your horses. I doubt that will be Morgana's only line of Defence, so we'll be trying to take alternative routes to conflict from now on if at all possible."

* * *

It was a long while before they finally reached the castle.

Morgana's forest had forced them to take a convoluted path of detours that wound through the forest seemingly without end. Around trees, through monstrously deep banks of snow, and across a frozen river, it seemed that there was no end to the forest. Gawain even repeatedly considered accusing Merlin of leading them in circles.

Not helping was that the golem they had destroyed was clearly not Morgana's only attempt at making such constructs. It wasn't uncommon for the telltale thunder to reach their ears once more – a clear sign of more of those ponderous stone giants on the approach. Merlin had to repeatedly change routes whenever these quiet booms began, the party as a whole unwilling to spend any more time on this mission than necessary; further conflict should be avoided if at all possible in favour of completing their goal.

Eventually, however, they reached their destination, even as the snow began to fall with greater fervor, turning a relatively clear night into a blizzard.

Had Merlin not been able to confirm the presence of magic here, he'd have said this fortress, though impressively large in comparison to most structures, was still very much empty; the outer stone wall was broken in several places, struck down by either ballistae or trebuchets. The gate was in pieces, only barely standing, with several gaps more than large enough for even Lancelot or Gawain to squeeze through with relatively little trouble.

Several of the structures past that were in no better shape, with large, gaping holes in the walls exposing the rooms within.

There were no banners. There were no fires. There weren't even the slightest hints of life to be found milling about. Furthermore, everything was coated in a thick layer of snow, further giving credence to the idea that this place had been left to the mercy of the elements.

"She certainly hasn't bothered to clean up at all," Merlin remarked as he dismounted from his horse, tying the reigns to a broken piece of stone.

"Were it not for those golems, I would say we wasted our time coming here," Tristan scratched his chin thoughtfully, "Why would she leave this place in such ill repair after putting so much effort into trying to defend it from an army?"

"Perhaps she has simply not had the time. Or the man-power," Lancelot intoned, following Merlin's lead, "Repairs to a castle of this scale is not something a man can do on his own. Those golems are strong, but they hardly seem fit for assisting with construction or restoration."

Gawain said nothing, merely staring up at the structure and biting at his lip before descending from his horse. He tied the reigns to keep the steed from wandering off, then turned to the others, "Shall we proceed, Mage?"

After a moment of considering calling a vote to leave the Knight of the Sun behind, Merlin spun his staff before planting it firmly in the ground. He began to murmur under his breath, magical energies flowing through him once more.

The Knights quickly felt the energy emanating from Merlin begin to spread, and then surround them like a thick cloak or fog. It wasn't visible, but it didn't need to be seen to be perceived; Lancelot cleared his throat, as though something had been caught, his expression twisting in a grimace. If Tristan was unnerved by the display of magic, he did not allow it to show, though beneath his cloak he did feel his fists clench involuntarily. And Gawain did not realize his hand was straying until he felt his fingers wrap around the hilt of his sword, yanking his hand back with a start.

Merlin finally opened his eyes, and the prana flow ceased. He glanced at the Knights, "These wards I've cast should conceal us from most of Morgana's Defences, which I'm assuming are magical in nature, as well as reveal anything that would normally be concealed with illusions. That said, it does not mean we are concealed from everything, or that there won't be anything hidden through simple mundane means; this won't protect us from mundane traps and the like. Be on your guard."

With that, he turned, and started forwards; the Knights followed, and soon found themselves in a ruined courtyard.

The resemblance to Camelot was not lost upon any of them; it was not a perfect copy by any means, but it certainly seemed to emulate King Arthur's seat of power. It was, at once, both exaggerated and ruined, the towers spiraling higher than any tree; the ornately carved wooden doors were wrought with rusted iron fittings, standing far taller than what was necessary. A chapel held a massive, vaulted ceiling through a hole in its roof, with several large chandeliers hanging from its rafters. Even the square seemed to reflect once incredible grandeur, as though even the peasantry that lived here once upon a time lived in luxury. The castle itself was nothing short of gargantuan, a structure that towered over the forest.

But it only seemed to add to the sense of foreboding. Masterfully carved stonework lay scattered across the cobblestone street; the remains of a siege were all that was left. Great stones thrown by trebuchets and massive bolts left by ballistae remained firmly lodged where they had struck, and the stone was still blackened from intense fires. Even more disconcerting was the distinct lack of any sort of perishables or commerce. Looking in the windows, nothing was left behind in the shops; perhaps, one could chock this up to bandits taking everything of value, but the distinct lack of anything aside from the remains of battle only seemed to enrich the chill wrought by the abandoned structures.

"… I don't recall any of the fortresses I have been in being nearly this grand," Gawain murmured.

"Nor do I," Lancelot agreed, "Merlin, you said this place was a fortress from one of the King's twelve wars?"

"It was," Merlin said, "But there are many things magic can do, to people and to places. Seems Morgana wasn't satisfied with it as it was."

The four advanced across a great stone bridge to the castle proper; Gawain was quick to shove his body against the great doors, only to grunt in unsurprised frustration when they did not open.

"Locked," he muttered.

Merlin gave him a wry smile, "Did you really expect Morgana to leave her front door unlocked for you?"

"No," Gawain snorted, "I'd simply prefer to make sure before wasting my time looking for an alternative entrance."

"It's hardly a waste if it is a necessary step," Tristan glanced about, trying to recall this place from the many sieges he'd seen over the years. But no matter how he wracked his brain for the answer, he could not place it; if this was somewhere Tristan had been, once, then Morgana had warped it beyond recognition.

He stepped onto the railing of the bridge and stared out across the snow, frowning. The castle didn't really have a moat; that would imply that the gap between the town and the castle had been man-made. No, it would be more accurate to say that the castle had been built upon its own isle in the middle of a frozen river, which now seemed to stretch much farther than it reasonably should have, going from the frozen strait that they crossed not two hours prior. From what Tristan could tell, the outer wall stretched to encompass land on both sides of the river, each with massive portcullis that stretched into the depths of the frozen water below.

The island itself was not particularly large, probably a few thousand feet across at most, but it was more than enough for a castle to be built. The stone foundations disappeared into the earth below, the island's shores coated in small stones rather than sand, given what was visible beneath the blanket of white that enveloped everything.

He frowned. Given the design of the castle, there wouldn't be many ways by which the occupants could escape in the event of a siege. Camelot, having a very similar design, at the very least had a small boat at the ready should the need arise to get the nobility out of the castle quickly and efficiently. This meant the castle had a hidden escape passage that led out the base of the castle to the ocean.

If this one had anything similar…

"Perhaps we should try the base of the castle," Tristan stated, finally turning back to the others, "Every castle and fortress has some means of escape should the need arise. If an army is going to march across the bridge…"

Lancelot was quick to catch his meaning, "Then they would likely escape by boat. Meaning they would likely have an exit located with relative ease of access to the castle's shoreline."

Merlin scratched at his chin, "It's definitely plausible… shall we go see?"

"I prefer a more direct approach… but that may not be for the best, today," Gawain said, looking down over the railing himself. He then glanced at the others, "Let's find a way down there."

With that unanimous agreement, Tristan reached out to the stone and ran his fingers along the surface; when he finally found purchase, he gripped the stone, and swung out into open air, his armour clanking heavily as his boots hit the wall. He looked at his companions before beginning to descend, carefully seeking out handholds as he began the long descent to the beach below.

Each of them followed Tristan's lead, using the handholds he set for purchase… though it was harder for each of them in different ways. Lancelot and Gawain were both significantly bigger than the red headed archer; even with their swords moved to their backs instead of at their waists, they struggled with the smaller handholds under their own weight. And Merlin was forced to carry his staff in his teeth, having nearly slipped and met a very premature end trying to climb with one hand.

Finally, they reached the bottom, hands aching and practically coated in snow, their armour and cloaks barely visible. With the sky quickly growing darker, they began their search for an entrance.

Gawain rounded to the west side, drawing his sword; even in these shadows, Excalibur Galatine's glow was more than enough to cast a light through the darkness, though he still had to squint to see through the snow. It seemed to fall faster the further ahead he trudged, and it was already up past his ankles, making it difficult to push forwards.

Gawain grit his teeth, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself as he scanned the area as best he could, the castle towering over him. He pulled himself beneath its shadow hoping to get the snow out of his eyes if only for a moment.

Then he saw it.

A gaping crack in the stone; a seemingly small, innocuous cavern.

He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from calling to the others. He pushed through the snow bank to the crevice, easing himself in as carefully as he could, Excalibur Galatine held before him like a torch, its blue light casting the darkness aside.

It wasn't a particularly wide gap; Gawain could slip in easily enough, but he suspected that if the others were to follow, they would have to do so in single file. Though he was fairly certain this was the entrance they were looking for, he needed to make sure.

Five feet. Then ten. Then fifteen.

And then the natural stone walls gave way to brickwork and cobblestone.

Gawain couldn't help the smile that crossed his lips. Finally, some luck!

He turned and returned to the storm beyond the reach of the cavern, shouting into the dark at the top of his lungs, "Tristan! Lancelot! Mage!"

For a long minute, there was no response. Then, finally, his companions emerged from the shadows.

"Well, I see you've found our entrance," Merlin remarked, peering past Gawain.

"You're sure this leads into the castle?" Tristan asked.

"I checked. The walls give way to masonry twenty feet in."

"Good," Lancelot stated, "Then let us make haste."

Gawain had been correct in his assessment – the four of them had been forced to march through the crevice in single file. Once again, the Knight of the Sun took the lead, with the Knight of the Lake directly behind. Merlin walked silently behind Lancelot, and Tristan took the rear, his hands twitching, ready to strum his bow at the slightest sign of a threat.

As promised, the cavern gave way to stonework, and the hall gradually widened so that Lancelot and Gawain could walk side by side. At Merlin's insistence, Excalibur Galatine had been sheathed, as he did not know if his magic could hide the light of the holy blade.

Eventually, the four found themselves at a dead end, though the wall seemed to have a distinct difference from the rest. Familiar with the concept of false walls and sealed chambers, Lancelot and Gawain immediately had their swords drawn; after a brief moment of debating the best way to strike, both warriors slammed the pommels of their blades in between the bricks at the center.

Immediately, the brickwork fell away behind the force of the blow, the seal either worn, shoddy, or both. It did not take long for both Knights to remove enough of the bricks for them to enter the room beyond; the hallway opened up into a large chamber with tables lining the center and the sides, the wood rotted beyond recognition, and the wood stoves having all gone dark, ashes in the bottom of each.

"… it appears we have reached the kitchens. Or at least, what's left of them," Gawain muttered with clear disgust. As a fine chef of great caliber (or so he believed himself to be), this was a complete disgrace to all things culinary.

Tristan glanced at each of the three doors, each one appearing more than a little flimsy even if they had been locked, "So where do we go from here?"

"Well," Merlin stated, "The most logical thing to do would be to try and find the strongest source of magic within the castle. With that in mind, splitting up would be a terrible idea – none of you can sense magic and might wander into a trap."

"So more following Ser Merlin, then," Lancelot crossed his arms.

"Hey, it works. Unless you have a better idea, I recommend you refrain from knocking it."

The inside of the castle was a winding maze of rooms and corridors. The rooms that didn't appear to have a dedicated purpose were all barren, and there were several areas in the castle where the wall and ceiling had been smashed in, allowing snow to fall freely through the gaps.

The only consistencies in their path was Merlin's occasionally scribbling on the walls and floors with his staff to mark their path, as well as a consistent ascent, leading them up through vast halls, tight stairwells and across walls and parapets to the upper echelons of the structure.

"We're getting close," Merlin glanced about as they strode across another wall, "So far, most of Morgana's Defences have consisted of traps, all of which we've managed to bypass… very little in terms of a more active Defence."

"It's empty… eerily so," Tristan stared out into the forest, jaw set, "You would think there would be something here… guardians, of some sort."

"Merlin has been keeping us concealed, and illusion is his specialty," Lancelot said, "It's possible his skill in this regard yet outmatches Morgana's."

Seemingly pleased to have his ego stroked, Merlin abruptly stopped, staring up at the massive door that stood before them, easily upwards of twelve feet tall, wrought from iron and engraved with several magical beasts of various natures. The central tower in the castle was truly a massive structure, with everything built seemingly with the specific purpose of spiraling around it in a sprawling complex far below.

Merlin smirked, then swept his hand across the surface of the door; as he suspected, the door had been sealed shut with magic, dozens of deep purple runes appearing in the air before the door – powerful wards indeed…

His smile widened as he spun his staff between his fingers, and slammed the tip into the stone; the dozens of gaps in the weaving wood began to glow as Merlin began his counterspell.

The circle began simply enough; a simple white line that began at the top and stretched to about five feet across as it seamlessly completed itself. But then, symbols began to appear, runes of glowing white within a diagram of ever growing complexity. Before long, it formed something akin to a chart to map out the stars, with an intricacy only matched by the seal upon the door in that instant.

Both magics began to glow brighter, and brighter, shining with the intensity of the rising sun for a brief instant and making all three Knights shield their eyes.

And then they both shattered, the door slowly swinging open.

"Is this it?" Gawain asked.

"No. But it is just above us. We don't have very far to go."

"Then let's get inside."

The interior of the tower was every bit as massive as its exterior; the rafters rose high above them, with a spiraling staircase lining the wall starting at the far side of the room. Evidently, when Merlin said "just above us," what he meant was "at least sixty feet above us," as the walls and stairs tower stretched high into the darkness, with no ceiling in sight.

The way the stone seemed to branch from the walls in the form of four large pillars and align in the center like a cross seemed to suggest that this place had once been some kind of bell tower; several chains lay on the floor, with no indication of what they might have once been used for beyond the room's design. The floor, oddly, was mostly comprised of thick, rusted metal grating, with only an outside ring of stone forming a completely solid floor – likely for the sake of transferring and amplifying the sound of the missing bell as it travelled down the tower.

It was only when they were halfway across the room that they heard it.

It wasn't quite a clicking sound; it was heavier than that. More like hooves on stone, echoing all around them with no clear source… and growing louder.

It was Tristan that found the source first, finally looking down into the dark pit. His golden eyes shot open, and he leaped back, shouting as loudly as he could, "SCATTER!"

No sooner did each Knight and the Mage immediately throw themselves in opposite directions, than something truly massive smashed into the grate from below. The metal bent outwards, several large chunks sent flying like earth from a newly formed geyser. The stench of rotten flesh quickly filled the room, as though they had just walked into a massacre of a battlefield, and a low growl began to echo through the tower.

Gawain could only gape at what he saw, a mix of horror and revulsion washing over him, his eyes as wide open as his mouth. Lancelot murmured a small prayer beneath his breath as he pulled himself to his feet, and Tristan, for once, found that he could not close his eyes out of some sick fascination.

It was huge – its head was easily twice the size of a horse's if not bigger, and its massive shoulders were wider across than most carriages. It scrabbled for traction with its hind legs briefly before finally beginning to pull itself up through the hole, leaving deep gouges in the metal beneath them, the Knights all shocked that the grating could actually support its weight.

Monstrous did not properly describe it; monsters were comprehensible. Monsters could be understood. The proper word to describe the creature was 'abomination.'

Its mouth was large – far too large for any creature any of the three Knights were aware of, five feet from the tip of its snout to the edge of its lips, with its lower jaw being over a foot longer still. Its nose was bulbous and black, glistening as sickly green mucus poured out of its nostrils, the creature heaving its heavy breaths with every movement; the overall shape of its head was some strange mix of canid, ovid and lizard, with a top that bordered on flat, but a clearly defined brow that stretched from the front of its "face" to the sides.

However, it was the teeth that got the attention of the Knights first.

At first, it appeared as though the beast were gasping for breath, almost panting, but it quickly became clear that it simply could not close its jaws. The teeth at the front were mostly sharpened fangs along the top, wolf-like teeth that were accompanied by large, sharp spires of bone that jutted out from the gums at random intervals around or even between them, as though there had not been enough room for all of them to emerge as the creature grew. But the bottom was nothing short of a nightmare; they appeared to be that of a goat's, but again the wolf and unknown teeth attempted to emerge from the flesh, creating the horrifying visage of fangs and molars being forced to grow around one another in a chaotic mess that caused pain just by being looked upon. Further back, the mess only continued, with teeth jutting both out of and into the mouth, molars and fangs forced to coexist where they truly should not have. Every time the creature's mouth drew too far shut, the teeth would gouge into its own flesh, forcing the jaws back open with blood dripping from fresh wounds, inflicted by its own horrifying excuse for a maw, its long tongue trailing the air and dripping with spittle and red.

Past the terrible mouth was a series of eyes – six in total, three on each side, mismatched in colour and design. The front pair were dark, bearing the circular pupils of dogs and wolves, set in the skull with an eerily human appearance; the ones beyond that were closer to green in colour, with the slit pupils one might expect from a cat or a snake, large and unblinking. And the ones mounted on the sides of the beast's head were a deep gold, with the horizontal pupils of a goat; all six sets of eyes wandered the room with a mad fervor, as though looking for something it desperately needed.

Finally, it pulled itself onto solid ground, widening the gap in the floor and causing the metal to groan; as it rose to its full height, it became clear it was far larger than the golems from before. Its long ears twitched as it steadied itself, each of its four legs longer than Lancelot was tall and easily thick around as a man's torso. Its overall build was closer to a hound's than anything else, though each limb ended in a mix of cloven hoof, wide foot and dog-like paw; large, flat, blackened bone jutted out from each of the creature's toes, some more wickedly hooked whilst others seemed more blunt, the foot overall disproportionately wide even for its size. Its skin was patchwork, with white fur more predominate at the head and shoulders, fading to a dark, almost bluish grey at the sides and limbs, and leathery scales dominating its long, heavy, lashing tail, though patches of scales and poked out like spots on a dog's fur, though to a decidedly less than aesthetically pleasing effect. Nearing thirty feet in length and standing over nine feet tall, it was truly a nightmare to behold.

It only took a moment to breathe before its jaws opened wide, almost to a full one hundred and fifty degree angle, spittle continuing to drip to the floor. Rather than a roar, however, the sound it made was more akin to a scream of horrified agony – as though the creature knew what it was, and wanted nothing more than to end its tortured existence.

"A chimera," Merlin swallowed, "That's… that's troubling."

"A what?" Gawain asked, appalled, "That looks nothing like the Chimera from Roman mythology, Mage!"

Any further exchange was cut off by the creature springing into action with shocking speed and incredible violence, its jaws thrown wide open and snapping down where Gawain once stood. He had Excalibur Galatine drawn, and swung it into the chimera's snout; the blade cut into the flesh, but unlike with the golem, the beast's bones proved too sturdy for the sword to cut through. It gave a low groan, then pushed forwards, knocking Gawain off his feet and onto his back.

It was only by Lady Luck's grace that he was not halfway swallowed; he managed to slam his sword into the bottom jaw of the chimera to keep it at bay as it tried to bite down on his head and torso, buying him just enough time to pull himself out from between those teeth.

Nonetheless, he couldn't stop himself from choking as he dragged himself out from under the chimera again. Its breath was truly noxious, in every sense of the word – just what did Morgana _feed_ this thing?

The monster did not seem to notice him, however; its mismatched eyes were fixed upon the other Knights, equal parts rage and pain in its distorted features as it suddenly launched itself from its perch straight at them.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the voice of reason was shrieking at Lancelot that this was not a good place to be, but the mad chaos of combat had already begun its dance of death. There was no time for retreat or reposition. Morgana's abomination would offer no mercy to any of them. Only death should its jaws catch any not fast enough to avoid them. He raised Arondight high, ready to fight the beast head on.

"For the King! For Camelot!" he roared, a battle cry soon echoed by his fellow Knights, as they too prepared to enter the fray.

He ran forward to meet it, taking it by surprise and forcing it to correct the path of its attack. He ducked under the slash of its claws and swung upward, feeling his sword bite, hearing the screech change to a bellow of pain and rage. It landed heavily, seeming almost clumsy on the ground after the deadly grace of its initial pounce, but it whipped around with surprising speed, the jaws parting, taking in a deep breath, and then...

A thunderous, ear-splitting roar.

Lancelot brought his hands up purely out of instinct, wincing as the agonized howling filled the air once more, a ungodly cacophony seeking to immobilize them. It felt almost like his skin beginning to redden and blister, could almost see his gauntlets start to warp in the mangled melody, and then the noise softened suddenly, magic swirling around him, healing the damage dealt, deflecting the monster's unnatural attack, Merlin's voice rising strong and steady.

Dimly, he was aware of the others, but he could not even spare them a glance before he charged forward again, spinning around the wicked head as it darted out for a bite, slamming Arondight once more into the massive skull and opening a gash in the thick hide over one shoulder with the strength of his swing.

A mighty buffet of the creature's tail sent Gawain and Tristan tumbling backward, but Lancelot hunched his shoulders and drove forward, lashing out with Arondight again and again, staying close, using the beast's own bulk as a shield against its teeth and claws while the others attempted to do the same against its flank. With a bellow of fury, it launched itself into the air, twisting and diving back to earth a short distance away.

Before any of the Knights could make attempt at closing the gap again, they saw the jaw drop open, and braced in anticipation of another gout of its unnatural roar. Instead, the creature shot its head out, hooking its fangs around Arondight in an attack as unexpected as it was sudden, then whipped its neck sideways in a rapid, violent motion. Agony flared white-hot down Lancelot's left arm, and then he was flying through the air in an arc that ended with bruising force at the foot of a marble pillar. The edifice shook with the impact, crumbled stone raining down from above to pummel the dazed Knight.

He opened his eyes, saw the creature wheeling to face him again. He shook his head, trying to clear it, tried to rise, but his blade was pinned to the ground, buried beneath a pile of rubble, and his left arm refused to obey his commands. The sounds of magic exploding and the clash of steel, Gawain and Tristan attacking from opposite flanks, trying unsuccessfully to divert its deadly intent from him, then scattering as it strafed the ground with another swipe of its claws, digging up the stone with its fury.

"Keep it distracted! Don't let it focus on a target!" he shouted, heedless of the bolt of pain from his trapped arm. The creature reared back to strike again, then pulled up short, flinging its head skyward and roaring in pain as it clawed at the pair of arrows that had pierced one of its left eyes. It wheeled, seeking the source of its pain, and only then did Lancelot release Arondight from his grip, still trying to pry himself free from the rubble. Within seconds, he was free, his left arm hanging limp and useless at his side as he scrambled to his feet, the fingers of his right hand closing again over his sword's hilt. The creature was facing away from him now, thrashing its head wildly as the others attacked from all sides.

Lancelot felt a grin on his face as Gawain leaped in, weaving like a mongoose fighting a snake and driving his sword into the top of one massive foot. The creature bellowed, its movements hampered as it tried to limp away on just three legs.

"Tristan, take the left leg!"

He ran forward, a single stroke of his sword slicing cleanly through the tendon at the back of the right hind leg. The archer's method was messier, but no less effective: several powerful shots launched one after another around the tendons, the targeted limb shaking and tearing from each impact until the deed was done. Hamstrung, the creature sagged back onto its now useless hindquarters, its front half still slashing at its enemies in a futile effort to attack, roaring in agony.

Gawain's war shout filled the world as he made another running leap and buried Excalibur Galantine in the creature's side in a massive overhand thrust, the weight of his body dragging the blade down through flesh and bone as he fell back to the ground. The roar became a keening wail, blood sizzling in the next bellow that burst from its mouth. A clawed forepaw slammed into the earth next to Merlin, who stepped back calmly, hands incandescent with power that he shaped with will and word, creating a crackling globe of pure energy that an almost negligent flick of his wrist sent flying into the maw of the beast.

The great head tipped skyward, and each Knight struck at once, driving the blades of their swords deep into the exposed chest, then rushing away as the creature reared back once more. Its massive body slammed down heavily into the grate, and it again struggled to rise.

Lancelot brought his sword to bear, holding it before him as it began to glow. Unlike with the golem, this shine bore the true brilliance of the stars above reflected in the surface of the lake; the true shine of the holy blade Arondight.

As though sensing its end, the chimera redoubled its effort to rise, focusing its efforts entirely on Lancelot – though whether it be out of some sick desire for self preservation or an active wish for its misery to end, none could be sure.

"May this blade offer you peace," Lancelot spoke, stepping forwards, the glow of his blade focusing at the tip; the chimera launched itself at him right as he began his swing.

"Unfading Light of the Lake! Arondight!"

The light filled the room in a blinding blaze of golden glory; Lancelot's swing was straight and true, the energy within the blade released instantly upon contact with the chimera's body. The light of destruction washed over the creature, like a raging river over a stone, and Lancelot felt the creature's shoulder simply disappear under the edge of his sword.

When the light faded, it was clear the strike had been a mortal blow; the chimera lay on its remaining side, struggling for breath. One might have said it had been cut in half, if there were a second half to even examine; the only parts of the creature that remained intact were its twitching tail and hideous head.

It was a macabre sight, to see something so thoroughly twisted still struggling for life, despite its clearly tortured existence.

Lancelot knelt down beside the creature, gazing solemnly into its eyes; beyond the pain, beyond the hunger, he could have sworn he saw a hint of contentment despite the ever dogged desire for self preservation. Finally, the chimera gave a single convulsive shudder, ululating a deathknell with what little breath remained, and fully collapsed, a torn and bloody mountain of flesh.

"Lancelot," Gawain quickly approached his fellow Knight. His eyes immediately went to his companion's limp limb, "Your arm…"

"Broken," Lancelot grunted in confirmation as he rose to his feet.

Gawain bit at his lip, then gestured over to the stairs, "Come. I'll set the bone in place."

As the two drew away, Tristan continued to stare at the remains of the slain beast. He cracked his jaw as he tried to process what he was looking at; even in death, it seemed to break every rule of nature, the bones and organs themselves only barely recognizable as anything from the world he knew.

Merlin pulled in beside him, lips curled downwards, "Something troubling you, Tristan?"

"… you said this was a chimera?"

"I did."

"… Gawain is right. This doesn't look anything like the Roman legend."

Merlin shook his head, "Not _the_ Chimera, _a_ chimera. _The_ Chimera from legend was born from the monster Echidna – a natural magical monster. This," he poked the corpse with his staff, "is what you get when you use magic to forcibly fuse multiple animals into one creature."

It took all of Tristan's willpower to keep himself from giving in to the rising sickness within his stomach, "Morgana… _made_ this?"

Merlin nodded, "Got it in one. In particular, three different animals – wolf, mountain goat… and saltwater crocodile, though how she managed to snag one of those is well beyond me. They're native to the lands to the south – even farther south than Palamedes' homeland."

Tristan shuddered as Merlin began to poke through the creature's insides. If this… _thing_ was an indication of the lengths Morgana was willing to go…

"Mage," Gawain called, approaching with Lancelot at his side, "I've set the bones in Lancelot's arm. Would you be able to heal it before we continue?"

Merlin did not respond. He seemed more fixated on the creature's heart, reaching in and pulling what was left of the organ out of the chest cavity; his lips curled downwards as he inspected it, ignoring even the blood as it dripped onto his sleeve.

"Merlin," Tristan prompted, gripping the Court Mage's shoulder.

"… oh no…"

The quiet words immediately had the attention of all three Knights as Merlin's expression morphed from focus to realization.

"Merlin?"

"… it's more than just a guard dog," Merlin tossed the heart away, turning to the others, brow creased in a frown, "This chimera… it was a familiar."

"A familiar?" Gawain's eyes narrowed.

"Yes. Morgana made a link with it. She was capable of seeing what it saw, and directing its movements like a puppet on strings," Merlin glanced at the corpse again, "She did not appear to be in control for that battle, and for that much, we should be thankful. Applying actual finesse to that monster is not something I would be eager to see.

"But that is beside the point. The fact that it is a familiar and that it is now dead means that the link has been broken."

"And that means… what?"

"It means that Morgana knows her pet is dead. By extension, it means _she knows we're here_."

Silence overtook the room as the Mage's words slowly began to sink in.

"We need to move," Tristan decided, turning to Lancelot, "Merlin, how quickly can you heal his arm?"

"It won't be one hundred percent by any means," Merlin huffed, moving to inspect the Knight's newly set arm before a white glow overtook the limb, "But I can fuse the bone and dull most of the pain."

Tristan nodded, "As soon as you're done, we're going up, and grabbing what we can. We no longer have time for an in-depth search."

They all but sprinted up the steps with their weapons drawn once Merlin was finished, stealth having been utterly thrown to the wind as they climbed, exhaustion all but forgotten. At the top of the tower was a door similar to the one they had opened to get in, but this time, Merlin simply blasted the doors down, having no more time for a fancy demonstration; this was one lover's quarrel he desperately wanted to avoid.

Unlike the rest of the castle, the laboratory was fairly well cared for, perhaps even homely; torches lined the walls and crackled with flame, along with a hearth that held a roaring fire. Despite the fact that there were no such protrusions visible from the outside, multiple hallways seemed to branch off from the main room they just entered, which appeared to serve the purpose of a large study – thousands of books and scrolls of all types lined the circular walls, and lay open upon a large desk near the fire. It was almost a disarming visage, given the rest of the castle and what each of them knew of Morgana.

Regardless, they remained vigilant.

"Gawain, with Tristan," Lancelot intoned, "Merlin, with me."

"Don't touch anything," Merlin stated, a rare, serious expression forming over his face, "Everything in here is likely cursed. Do not touch anything, do not open anything, and do not read anything that is already open. I might not be able to fix whatever happens to you."

They broke off from each other without another word to inspect the different wings of Morgana's home. Artifacts and baubles of all sorts lined the walls of one wing; in another, various diagrams of anatomy and stone carving. They only conducted the briefest of checks around the workshop, having no time to inspect everything.

However, it was Lancelot that heard it as he turned to leave the room.

A faint wailing…

Curiosity piqued, yet clearly wary, he turned back to the rear of the room, searching for the source.

Merlin came to stand beside him, head tilted, "So you hear it too?"

"Just now," Lancelot answered.

Cracking a knuckle under his thumb, Merlin allowed his staff to glow once more, and lazily swept it across the room; at the far end, a bookshelf, and the wall behind it, faded from existence, and the wail became exponentially louder.

"Heh… Morgana never did take to illusions quite like I did," Merlin stated.

Lancelot only frowned. He drew his sword, and started towards the hall.

"You sure you want to go down there alone?" Merlin asked.

"Go and get Tristan and Gawain," Lancelot responded, "I will scout ahead."

With that, he ducked into the archway, the light beginning to dim.

The room he emerged in was more spacious than the ones before it; a massive stone worktable lay in the center, empty save for the dozens of runes that covered its surface, as well as the large chains that lay on the floor around it, bolted to the ground. More bookshelves and artifacts lined the walls, along with another fire. But this was not the calm, soothing fire of a hearth; this one was strong, but controlled, giving off a powerful heat that warmed the room to an almost uncomfortable degree. Suspended over the flames was a large sack of flesh, held in place by several chains attached to a wrought iron frame. A desk lined the far wall, and was absolutely piled with open books, some new, some old, and some truly ancient, and plants and herbs and even stones and meats of multiple types were displayed on several of the shelves, though for what purpose, Lancelot did not know.

But Lancelot was drawn to the curtains in the corner, which obscured something from view.

"Lancelot?"

The Knight of the Lake glanced back; Tristan, Gawain and Merlin had finally caught back up with him, their weapons also drawn.

"What is that?" Gawain asked, almost seeming to want to reach for his ears.

Lancelot merely brought a finger to his lips, then returned his attention to the curtain, drawing closer. After a moment of deliberation, he steeled himself, and yanked them open.

A long, agonizing pause swept over the Knights, Gawain and Tristan waiting for Lancelot to strike whatever it was on the other side of the curtain and end the wailing... but no strike was made.

Instead, both men saw something they thought they would never see in their lifetimes.

Ser Lancelot was... completely dumbstruck, to the point he nearly dropped Arondight in shock at whatever it was his eyes, now wide as dinner plates, saw within. His bulk obscured it from the other two, preventing them from making the same discovery as he. Only when he sheathed his blade did they risk approaching, still confused, wondering what could possibly reduce the greatest Knight in the realm to such a stupor.

Gawain briefly met eyes with Tristan, "Lancelot?"

No answer. The Knight seemed completely oblivious to his companions' presence as he entered the room. Was he under a spell perhaps? It did not appear so.

"Lancelot?" Gawain tried again, louder this time. "What is it? What's inside?"

Still the Knight ignored them. Or was too entranced with what lie within to respond. The possibility of a spell was becoming more likely with each moment he remained unresponsive. The other two did not dare enter the room, unsure whether it was safe to do so thanks to his peculiar behaviour.

Lancelot, however, was focused only on what he saw in front of him. Not as a Knight defending the land from an enemy threat, but as a man who was most experienced in this regard. An area where both Gawain and Tristan lacked any experience entirely. He was calm as he approached, and made no sudden movements as he carefully reached down to pick up...

Gawain moved further into the room, the silence unbearable. "Lancelot, what is going-"

They all heard it at the same time, stopping Gawain in his tracks: a high note of fearful crying. The kind one only heard from the mouth of...

Slowly, Lancelot turned to face his brothers, the source of the crying tucked gently into the crook of an arm. It's tiny hands were close to its face, while its eyes were screwed shut, crying out in dismay at having found itself surrounded by unfamiliar beings. Despite being so young, a full head of hair rested atop its head. A full head of golden hair.

Even Ser Tristen's eyes snapped open, wide and uncomprehending, mouth hanging open as he tried to come to terms with what it was he saw. Even Gawain could barely force the words out of his throat, so stupefied he was at the sight.

"A... _a baby_?!"

* * *

*rises from the ashes* I LIIIIIIVE!

... *coughs*

So... It's... it's, uh... it's been a while.

But you guys didn't honestly think I was dead, did you?

... did you?

*looks at the pile of unfinished stories - Darksiders: Last of the Third Kingdom, Fate Eternal Adventure, Of Valkyria, Darcsens, and the Holy Grail War..*

Uh... heheh... I'll uh... I'll get to those...

A-Anyways! Some of you may notice within the next few days that this story will also be posted by me at Jarl-of-the-North and by one Batomys2731 on DeviantART! That is because this story is a collaboration and we are both posting it where we can! The more the merrier, am I right!?

Unfortunately, because of the way works, we are unable to both post this story on both of our accounts (unless something's changed in the last two years. If so, could someone let either of us know?). So we're kind of stuck, to paraphrase Fate/Cero's Kotomine, "At this stone wall of bullshit."

Anyways...

Hope you all enjoyed the first installment of Knight of the Heart!


	2. The Knights' Return

KOTH Chapter 2 Author's Notes

Batomys2731 and I do not own TYPE-MOON or Fate or any properties thereof. If we did, the idiots that designed Boudicca and Spartacus and gave Blackbeard his POS personality would have been fired for presenting such stupid ideas.

...

* * *

Merlin could feel his teeth slate against each other as his eyes fell upon the infant in Lancelot's gentle grasp; though his outward expression was one of idle curiosity, he could feel the telltale hints of irritation beginning to build up in his stomach.

Of all the things that could have happened to change the future he had charted out all those years ago, this was not something he had anticipated in the slightest.

Merlin had known about the baby for years, of course; really, how could he not? He had known how Arturia's rule would begin and how it would end, and everything in between; his clairvoyance had shown him everything, from the moment of her birth to her end after Camlann.

He was fine with how things were going to play out. King Arthur's story was one that would end in tragedy, and as far as he was concerned, that was okay. There was no need to interfere with fate.

And yet here they were, with Lancelot holding the object of Arturia's demise in the crook of his arm.

The Mage knew from the instant he saw the child, and from the reactions of his three companions, that there was no way he could convince them to leave the infant be; all three of the Knights were still in shock, but there was no way that they would leave a baby in the care of Morgana. He briefly considered casting an illusion of the child so that the real one might be left behind, but logic shut that solution down almost as quickly as it had presented itself; not only would it be impossible for him to maintain an illusion that intricate without eventually slipping up, he knew that it would likely end in every member of the Round Table demanding his execution once they learned he had tricked the three into leaving the baby here – and given the context of the situation, he wasn't sure if Arturia would stop them. Say what one might about her methods of ruling, her moral code is still up to par.

Furthermore, it wasn't possible for him to simply tell the Knights who and what the infant was – that would just make them even more reluctant to leave the baby behind, if for entirely different reasons. One did not simply leave a powerful weapon in the hands of their worst enemy, after all.

His irritation only continued to grow as it dawned on him that, at this stage, there really was no way to "fix" what was broken.

The future had changed, his prophecy was ruined, and that was all there was to it.

"Well… that's just great," Merlin muttered.

"A baby," Tristan repeated, his voice quiet. Finally beginning to recover his composure as he stepped forwards. Cautiously, he reached out to the infant, only for her to recoil upon his gentle touch, as though he were some kind of terrifying beast. Tristan flinched back, seeming hurt; he hadn't meant to scare the poor thing, but…

"… I can't believe this," Gawain's face was beginning to lose its shock as well, but rather than any form of solemnness or serenity, his expression was grim, his grip on his sword tightening in the throes of anger, "I knew Morgana was a monster… but to kidnap a child?" he let out a hiss, his weapon beginning to audibly clatter as his lips pulled back in a snarl, "That's repulsive, even for her!"

Merlin had to bite down on a snort of laughter. The other Knights, however, were as solemn and silent as the grave, Lancelot doing his best to soothe the baby, but to relatively little effect.

Finally, Merlin stepped forwards, softly murmuring under his breath; he then slowly brought his hand over the baby's head, a shower of countless twinkling white lights slowly falling over her. After a moment, the child finally stopped crying, dazzled by the countless small stars surrounding her, her eyes a vibrant shade of teal. She reached out to touch them, only for them to zip away before they could be grabbed. Again and again, the baby tried, but her movements were steadily growing more and more sluggish. Finally, the baby's eyes drooped shut, and she stilled.

"Minor sleep cantrip," Merlin smirked, crossing his arms, "Works much better than any lullaby."

"And you would know that… how?" Gawain shot at him, his grip on his sword still so tight he feared the hilt may break in his hand. Something, anything to distract him from his own fury was welcome.

"I raised Arthur, remember?" Merlin gave the Knight of the Sun a lazy smile, "I've got more experience with children than all three of you."

At this, Lancelot glanced away, biting his lip as his mind wandered to days long past – to the boy he could only briefly act as a father to…

"… whose child do you suppose she is?" the Knight of the Lake finally asked, looking back down at the sleeping infant.

Tristan frowned, once again reaching for its face to brush the hair from its eyes, "… if I didn't know any better…" he seemed to struggle with the words for a moment, "I would say she was Arthur's child. The resemblance is… uncanny."

"But that isn't possible," Gawain stated, seeming grateful for the change in topic, the rattling of his sword finally beginning to die down, "Arthur doesn't have any children," the matter of fact tone Gawain carried seemed to imply something else entirely – that Arturia in fact _couldn't_ have any children, being one of the few to know of her true gender, "Besides, even if Arthur did have an child, we'd have known about it if they were kidnapped. Resemblance notwithstanding, I'd wager that the child is a commoner."

"But why?" Lancelot wondered, "What would Morgana have to gain by kidnapping a common-born newborn?"

"Birth does not necessarily determine one's ultimate place in the world," Tristan pointed out, "Ser Percival may have been of noble birth in the end, but he was raised in the wild – no one, not even Percival himself, knew of his bloodline until after he had joined the Round Table. And Ser Palamedes wasn't even of British birth – many see him as even lower than the common folk, and yet he stands among us as equals," he looked at the child again, "There may be more to this child than what any of us are aware of."

"Perhaps," Merlin interjected, "the answer lies in Morgana's notes."

The Knights turned to look at the Mage, and he pressed, "Let's not forget our objective, here. Our mission was to find out what Morgana was doing. We know this child has something to do with it, and we can't very well just leave it here," he glanced back at the entrance, "Aside from that, Morgana is on her way here. We don't have time for an extended investigation. We have to take what we can and get out."

"… He's right," Tristan spoke, turning back to the others. He shouldered Failnaught and reached into the pouch on his belt, retrieving a large burlap sack, "Merlin? What should we grab?"

"Books," Merlin stated bluntly, "Artifacts and ingredients aren't as important; the former are often fragile, the latter spoil, and we don't have the time needed to make sure they will remain intact in either case. The books, on the other hand, may be helpful in the long run. Ancient texts might give us some inkling on what Morgana has been trying to do, as will more explicit notes."

"There are a lot of books here," Gawain glanced about at the towering bookshelves, "How should we differentiate in terms of importance?"

"Dust. Anything that has a layer of dust has been left for some time; try to find books and notes that were recently disturbed. I'll take this room," Merlin stepped over to the desk, a sack of his own in hand, and began unceremoniously dumping books into the sack, "If the shelf itself has a consistent layer of dust, then chances are nothing on it's been touched in a while."

Gawain paused, then looked to the others, "I'll take the observatory."

"I'll take the common room," said Tristan.

"I suppose that leaves me with the library," Lancelot looked from Gawain to Tristan, "We leave at the count of five hundred. Keep your search brief."

"One," Gawain started, "Two."

"Three."

And the three departed for their respective search areas, keeping an internal countdown as they began.

It did not take long for Lancelot to fill his bag completely; many of the books were large, and attempting to fit everything together like a puzzle was easier said than done with the baby in his arm. Nonetheless, he did what he could, taking care not to directly touch what he couldn't read – his English and French were both flawless, and he knew a level of Germanic and Latin, but there were still many texts whose written language he could not even hope to place despite many hours of study.

Tying the sack off and affixing it to his belt, he made for the entrance of Morgana's workshop.

It didn't take long for Tristan or Merlin to join him, their bags filled and tied; Gawain, however, barely made it back in time for the final count, one hand on a bag full of books, the other on a thick curtain cord bound around an ancient text with a cover of mottled green that had, according to the Knight of the Sun, tried to take a bite out of him ("You're supposed to stroke the spine first, you idiot!" Merlin had snapped as he took the book from Gawain, rolling his eyes in disgust).

Merlin cast his wards one last time to hide them from Morgana's magical Defences, and they swiftly retraced their steps, the scribbles in the halls that the Mage had made with his staff disappearing as they passed them, one by one.

Thankfully, leaving the castle was far easier than entering had been; with their increased pace and memorized route, they emerged onto the frozen rocky shore within twenty minutes of emerging from Morgana's workshop; the lake itself, however, impeded their progress, the deep snow banks upon the ice, along with their new burdens (the sleeping infant having been wrapped tightly in a thick blanket), making it a long, slow trudge to the abandoned town.

When they finally reached and mounted their horses, Merlin took off with a gallop, leading the Knights out of the forest as quickly as possible whilst avoiding the golems. All the trio could hope to do was follow blindly, and hope the Mage knew where he was going.

Finally, the trees began to thin; they were no less numerous, but they weren't nearly so incredibly thick or tall, becoming more natural. And then, they emerged onto the northern road, the fields and forests of Britain visible once more, stars faintly glimmering beyond the clouds, a wave of relief washing over all of them.

"Oh, thank God," Lancelot whispered.

Gawain turned, and stared into the dark forest, his grip on his reigns tightening, "We did not manage to kill Morgana…"

"She wasn't present, and Lancelot was injured," Tristan said, ever the voice of reason, "It could not be helped, Gawain. Even if she were there, Lancelot's injuries would have put us at an immense disadvantage."

"Besides," Merlin cheerfully began, "We've given her a pretty hefty setback. She's not bouncing back from this in a few days; it'll take her years to recover everything we took."

Lancelot let out a long, slow breath, staring into the forest. Then, the bundle in his arms began to squirm, faint whimpering reaching his ears; he pulled the blanket down slightly to expose the child, beginning to stir.

Merlin hopped down from his horse and approached, looking the child over with a curious eye, "Restless little thing. It hasn't even been an hour since I cast my cantrip, and she's already waking up."

The baby's eyes slowly opened, and she looked upon the Mage and the Knight of the Lake; for a moment, it seemed as though she would begin to cry again… but then a snowflake gently landed on her forehead. She blinked, burbling slightly, and gently prodded the melted snow before noticing the falling white around her. She reached up, fingers outstretched, seeming to be trying to catch them…

"With this little one with us, we'll have to make haste on our way to Camelot," Tristan's voice was somewhat grave as the others turned to look at him, though the baby still seemed more interested in the falling snow. He pulled out his rations, lips curled downwards slightly, "We have water, but our food is not fit for a newborn. If we do not make it there within a few days, it is likely the child will starve to death on the way."

"Can we not stop by villages to see her properly fed?" Lancelot asked.

Gawain shook his head, "The villages are all at least several days apart, and we need to report our findings to the King as soon as we are able. If we do stop, it will only be for an hour or two at most."

"I can slow her metabolism," Merlin offered, "It won't be any sort of miracle, but it should give her a week before any ill effects begin to set in. That being said, she's probably going to be miserable if she doesn't get food for that long."

"She will have to bear it," Gawain stated simply, "We cannot delay – for the King's sake, as well as her own."

"… very well," Lancelot muttered, internally cursing the circumstances to keep himself from cursing Gawain, "Then let us make haste."

But before they could set off, a streak of black, darker than even the clouded night sky above, arced across the sky like a fell falling star, soaring over the forest towards the castle within. Though it made no sound, all of them saw it – even the baby, who promptly began to cry again.

"… what was that?" Tristan wondered, a chill running down his spine.

"… we have to leave," Merlin mounted his horse, "Let's go."

"Mage," Gawain's voice was stern, "Ser Tristan asked you a question."

Merlin sighed, "That… was Morgana. And I don't think she's going to be in the mood for tea. So I recommend we put as much distance between us and her as possible before she can find a means to track us down."

The Knights needed no further prompting. Once Lancelot had the baby once again tucked in her blanket, they took off down the road at a full gallop, not stopping until well after the forest was out of their sight, and the first rays of dawn began to climb over the horizon.

* * *

Morgana was no stranger to rage.

If anything, rage was something she knew very, very well.

She still remembered the fury that accompanied the fear at her mother's rape; the blinding anger that followed the sorrow of her father's murder; the outrage and humiliation that overtook her on the day she was taken from her mother and sent to a nunnery… and again, when she was married off to King Urien.

All at the hands of King Uther Pendragon.

Even the name was enough to bring Morgana's blood to a boil.

But this?

Morgana couldn't think of an appropriate word for how this made her feel.

The ajar door was the first thing she noticed upon arriving at her tower, letting snow sweep into the darkness within. The second thing was the residual prana in the air, which no doubt belonged to Merlin – she knew that signature far too well to mistake it. The third thing she noticed was the stench – the smell of rotting flesh and blood.

She knew her chimera was dead from the moment her link to it was broken; but she did not expect to find it so thoroughly destroyed, with nearly half of its right side completely missing.

It was the dread that hit her first; there were very few weapons that could pierce the magically strengthened hide of a chimera, let alone one with a base formed from the thick, leathery scales of the massive saltwater crocodiles from the lands far to the south. To do this kind of damage, one would need the power of a cursed sword… like those wielded by the Knights of the Round Table.

At that thought, she sprinted up the stairwell to her workshop. Most of the books that had been strewn across her desks were gone; years of research and centuries old notes and texts from magicians and wizards who lived hundreds or even thousands of years ago… all gone.

But that could be recovered.

Morgana needed to make sure her homunculus was intact.

Her heart nearly stopped when she found the entrance to her laboratory proper open, its illusion stripped away. She rushed in, praying that her creation remained unharmed, throwing the curtains aside with all her might-

Only to find the cradle empty.

Disbelief washed over her, a chill running down Le Faye's spine as she tried to process what she was seeing. She blinked, half expecting the child to simply appear before her – and yet, nothing happened. The baby was gone.

For a long moment, all she could do was silently stare into the crib. Then, she slowly walked away, as though in a trance, her trembling steps taking her out of her workshop and into the tower below once again. She stopped right beside the chimera, breaths heavy... and her hands began to shake, slowly clenching into fists.

Abruptly, she let out a shriek of unholy fury that would make the divine cry out in fear, a wave of black lightning causing the tower to tremble. A solid, jagged pillar of dark flared from Morgana's outstretched hand, and the chimera's remains were completely consumed, smote by a power so dark and terrible that even she did not know its true name. At the end of it, the tower had a jagged, gaping hole in the side, and much of the floor had fallen away into nothingness; it still stood, but only through some miracle that the Witch neither knew nor cared for.

She breathed heavily, trying to force herself back into a state of calm. This was a heavy blow indeed; not only were her notes gone, so was her magnum opus. The weapon she would use to bring Arturia and everything she stood for tumbling down had been stolen from her, no doubt to be disposed of…

She took a long, slow breath. No… mere disposal wasn't it. If the intruders had wanted to dispose of her homunculus, all they would have needed to do was stick a knife in the infant's belly when they found her. No, there was another purpose for taking the child.

And as long as she was alive, Morgana could still recover her prized weapon.

She simply needed to bide her time.

Breathing through her slated teeth, she started up the steps once more. This fortress had been compromised; her golems and her chimera had failed to stop the intruders. That being said, this place was still Morgana's home, and she would not leave it so easily. She simply needed to better fortify it; armies were no longer her sole concern, not if Arturia was willing to send the Knights of the Round Table after her, and Merlin was willingly taking a more active role in assisting them.

This meant she needed a different type of guard.

Slipping back into her workshop, Le Faye reached out and pulled a particular book from the shelf, directing her energy back into study.

She would not be able to replicate her masterpiece…

But a single masterpiece homunculus would never be able to patrol the halls of a castle on its own anyways.

* * *

Lancelot sat outside of the tent, shivering slightly in the harsh winter cold and his breaths turning to mist in the cold night air. It had been six days since they left the castle, and thus far the infant seemed to have finally adjusted to the presence of the Knights and Mage; merely looking at them did not cause her to cry anymore.

That said, she still seemed to have her preferences when it came to whose presence she was in. She squirmed constantly whenever Merlin held her, never seeming comfortable in the white haired man's arms; but that was nothing in comparison to when Gawain held her. She would not lie still for him in the slightest, and even went so far as to reach up and yank out a tuft of his hair, as though to demonstrate her pure disdain for the Knight of the Sun. She even went so far as to laugh at his pained swearing, as though she understood that he was uttering curses that truly should not be uttered in front of children.

In Tristan's arms, however, she seemed relatively calm. She remained still and quiet for him, and was quick to sleep in his arms whenever she was tired. If anything, Tristan seemed to be growing rather fond of the child, using his musical talent to lull her into calm and sleep whenever it was possible.

But it seemed that Lancelot was her favourite; merely seeing him seemed to excite her, and she would squirm and reach for him until he finally acquiesced and held her. She would occasionally reach up and try to grab his hair, but unlike with Gawain did not yank on it, merely content to play with the indigo locks. She frequently vocalized her happiness with burbles and sudden wordless shouts and giggles in a way that reminded the Knight of the Lake very much of his own son.

But even then, there was one thing the baby seemed to hate above even Gawain, and that was being inside.

Not even Tristan's lullabies could get the child to calm whenever she was brought into the tent. Even when they brought her in from harsh cold, the Knights were met with unhappy squirming and even wailing; the child would cry until she was either too tired to continue crying, or until she was taken back outside into the chill. It was almost as though the inside of the tent were a reminder of her first few weeks of life in Morgana's workshop, the outside world closed off entirely.

It had taken two days for them to figure out the baby's fascination with the mysterious yet beautiful sky above. Even when clouds scudded low overhead with the threat of snowfall, her innocent green eyes were focused upward often enough that Merlin had joked she must have been formed from the stars above. During the day, she was mesmerized by the sea of bright azure and its islands of grey and white. At night, the child rarely seemed to sleep, the twinkling of the stars evoking a near rapturous bliss that kept her awake and excited throughout most of the night, tiny hands occasionally reaching out to try and pluck the shining gems from the sky.

And so here Lancelot sat, out in the cold as opposed to in the tent wrapped in a fur blanket, the child happily giggling; oddly, she didn't seem to display any sign that she even felt the cold, her cheeks remaining clear as ever. Even Merlin seemed to be affected by the chill, if only in temperament.

Lancelot couldn't help but smile, brushing the child's hair out of her face again, "You're a fussy one, aren't you?"

The only response he got was another laugh, though he pulled his hand away before she could try to grab it; a cold glove wasn't an ideal child's toy.

"Lancelot."

The Knight glanced up at the sound of the voice to see Gawain, standing in the light of the tent. The two simply stared at each other for a long moment before Gawain finally spoke, "You should come inside."

Lancelot paused for a moment, debating his response, before turning his gaze away, "You know she doesn't like it."

"This cold isn't good for either of you."

"I'll come in once she's gotten to sleep."

Gawain sighed, knowing that there was no arguing the point; instead, he asked, "Would you like me to get Tristan?"

"No. She should be asleep soon."

The Knight of the Sun sincerely doubted that, given how active the infant seemed to be, but ultimately made no further argument. Instead, he sat down beside Lancelot, staring off into the darkness.

"… You've gotten attached to her," Gawain remarked.

"And she has gotten attached to us."

"Some of us more than others."

"Still angry about your lopsided haircut, Gawain?"

The only response Lancelot got was a snort of displeasure, at which he couldn't help but smirk.

Silence reigned for a long while…

"… you won't be able to keep her, you know."

Lancelot blinked, then felt his eyes narrow; he already didn't like where this was going, "What do you mean?"

Gawain leveled a heavy gaze at him, expression serious, "I've seen the way you look at her, Lancelot."

"And what of it?"

"It's the look of a father."

Lancelot felt all his possible responses die at that; all he could do was stare at Gawain, who had now cast his gaze back into the snow.

"Lancelot, I know you regret having to leave your son behind… but you can't treat this girl as though she's a second chance at being a father. It isn't fair to you, or to your son, or to her. Especially not when she's likely going to be sent to an orphanage."

"Gawain," Lancelot's tone had grown dangerously low; the baby in his arm had grown quiet, as though sensing the Knight of the Lake's darkening mood.

Gawain looked at him again, unyielding, "I am not trying to offend you, Lancelot. I am simply trying to keep you from making a mistake. After we report our findings to the Round Table, you will likely never see this child again. If you get too attached, you will never be able to let go of what could have been."

Lancelot's jaw was set, but he could not say anything in response. All he could do was remain silent, knowing Gawain was right at least on some level… despite how badly Lancelot wanted to deny it.

"It would be better to let go now," Gawain stated, "When you were recalled to Camelot and had to leave your son behind, you were a complete wreck of a man for weeks. I'd rather not see history repeat itself."

Again, Gawain received no response. He let out a long, slow breath, and stood, turning back to the tent, "You should come back inside before you freeze. Those furs will only keep you warm for so long."

With that, he disappeared back inside.

Lancelot did not return to the tent until long after the baby had fallen asleep.

* * *

It was a silent trip back to Camelot that was infused with a sense of urgency and caution both. With Merlin scouring through and trying to decode one of Morgana's encrypted books and Lancelot still keeping the newcomer safe, Gawain and Tristan were tasked with keeping watch of the surrounding area for hints of pursuit. Whereas the previous lack of combat when approaching the fortress had been a welcome change of pace, the opposite was true on the venture back. Now it felt like they were being watched, another danger purposely lurking just out of site within the tree line, waiting to pounce the moment their guard was down. The two of them refused to let that happen, hands close but not quite gripping the grips of their weapons, not willing to trust the supposed emptiness until the forest was well and truly behind them.

Even before the walls of Camelot came into view, it was agreed they would keep the child out of sight until she was delivered to the King. The situation was precarious enough as it was. The last thing they wanted was for the citizens to see a child near identical in appearance to King Arthur in the arms of his Knights. Thus as they started approaching the main gates, Lancelot kept his cloak close to his person, concealing the bundle underneath from view, with Merlin again using the same sleeping cantrip to ensure the child did not wake at an inconvenient moment. None of the guards appeared to notice anything amiss as they passed by, yet they all remained vigilant.

It wasn't the first time that the Knights had found themselves visiting the streets of Camelot; once, a long time ago it seemed, they would have accompanied each other with a closeness like family, striding atop their horses through the market district with shining new armour and the cocky arrogance of young gods who accepted the deference shown to them by the commoners as no less than their rightful due.

Merlin had put it best, during one of their last 'mighty adventures': "If only they could be young again, so that today's troubles could stay far away."

An issue for a later time, indeed.

Moving through the market district now, all four of them saw it with new, more experienced eyes. Everything familiar, and yet not, and not just because the recent snowfalls had reduced the number of people moving throughout the packed streets. No one here was likely to recognize them, at least, not as the Knights of the Round Table. With concealing hoods over their heads and battered looking cloaks with nondescript tools at their belts, they resembled nothing more than a small group of travellers, albeit well supplied ones. They drew curious stares, though not as curious as they would likely have gotten had they been dressed in more proper armor for their stations.

Lancelot's eyes swept the stalls of the market, wondering if they had truly changed so much, or if the greatest changes were within him, or the Knights as a whole. The gaily striped awnings and tents did not seem nearly so bright, the filth on the snow covered cobble-stoned streets seemed more pronounced, and the people themselves looked weary and worn. There had once been a time where he'd never noticed the tension around their eyes when he was younger, never given any thought to the notion that whether or not the noblewoman browsing the available goods made a purchase might determine whether or not the merchant's family ate that night. He'd never noticed how thin the children playing in the street were, or the way the guards stood grimly outside the closed gates that marked the direction of the castle; had they been closed when he had been here last?

"You're looking thoughtful," Tristan murmured.

"It just looks so different from the way I remember it sometimes," Lancelot replied quietly, "I can't describe it. Sometimes the city just feels... different from how it should be."

"This year's winter arrived sooner than anyone anticipated. It hasn't exactly lead to a pleasant preparation period."

"Even still..." Lancelot trailed off, still uncertain.

"It will not always be so," the redheaded Knight assured him, "We just went through quite a harrowing experience. And earned a new passenger along the way. Don't be surprised that things seem distant now. That time will pass, and the memories will fall back into proper perspective."

Lancelot nodded, hoping that he could feel as sure of that as Tristan was. Perhaps he was just being a bit more cynical than usual, and hadn't noticed it.

He gave his head a shake, drawing back to his full height, once again tall and firm. "We should probably gather what we need before seeing the King," he said, surveying the market once more, forcing his mind back to practical matters, "We need to inform Arthur about what we found as soon we can, but it has been a long ride. Our new arrival hasn't eaten for nearly a week."

They had barely moved to split up however when a voice seemed to break through the surrounding noise and cold alike, warm and beautiful like a summer melody.

"Welcome home, Knights of the Round Table."

All four of them turned at the same time to see a beautiful woman flanked by a pair of guardsmen approaching, though her posture was relaxed and open, as if finding such protection unnecessary. Dressed in a simple but expertly designed red silk dress of nobility and a heavy fur cloak, the woman smiled a faint and but sweet smile of welcome, golden brown eyes possessing warmth and relief at their safe return. Even without the golden circlet on her brow, her posture and effortlessly graceful movements made it impossible to mistake her for anyone else. Even Merlin could not quite hide the surprise of being greeted in the markets by none other than the Queen of Camelot herself.

"Lady Guinevere." Lancelot was already standing straight, yet seemed to try and stand even straighter as he spoke to her, as did the other Knights, "So good to see you again."

A small dip of the head in thanks, a slight action that was still enough to knock a single curled strand of brown hair out of place. She raised a small, delicate hand to gently brush it away from her eyes as she straightened, "To you as well, Ser Lancelot. It is wonderful to see the four of you have returned safely."

She then noticed the damage to Lancelot's gauntlet, the warmth of her eyes briefly betraying a look of worry. Her voice remained as calm and serene as ever, "None of you are injured, I trust?"

Now it was Lancelot's turn to dip his head in a faint bow, "Nothing that Merlin's magic couldn't mend. We are all safe and well, My Lady."

The worry disappeared entirely, replaced with relief and much of the previous warmth. But before he could say anything more, the noise of the Round Table's Court Mage clearing his throat broke them both from their reverie.

"Forgive the unsightly break of decorum, my Queen, but I'm afraid we must call for a meeting with the King immediately. The whole situation with Morgana has become much more complicated than we anticipated." The Mage's face was devoid of its usual humour. "And I would request that you were present as well, my Lady. There are things that we discovered that you will need to know as well."

Whatever her thoughts on the rare request - it was not often the Court Mage requested she attend meetings of the Round Table as well - she hid them well. She motioned to a nearby guardsman, "Send for the others. Tell them to meet the King and myself in the main chamber immediately."

The chosen guardsmen gave a quick salute, then rushed to complete his given task. The other moved to escort the Queen and Knights, the entire party silent as they made their way back to the castle. As they moved, Lancelot's arm gently reached up to touch the hidden burlap sack beneath his cloak, careful not to wake the child within or inadvertently reveal the surprise too soon.

Things were about to get interesting indeed.

* * *

Merlin never really was one for silence. There were times where he could appreciate it, but it was never his first choice.

Silence usually accompanied boredom. Not always, but usually. Though a quiet field of flowers was a beautiful scene indeed and noise would probably spoil the ambience, he personally felt sound to be a source of comfort. Sound meant the world was moving forwards.

To Merlin, silence meant static. It implied that the world had come to a halt of some kind, despite the fact that he knew that only in the most exceptional of circumstances would such a thing be possible.

He knew that… but dear God Almighty, it would not have been hard to convince him that time had frozen completely upon stepping into this room.

Simply standing before the Round Table with Gawain, Tristan and Lancelot made the air feel like lead from the sheer tension; heavy and toxic, the gazes of each person at the table nothing short of painfully scrutinizing.

He idly twirled his staff, trying to keep his air of amusement, but one look from Arturia was all it took to convince him that he should probably keep his mouth shut for now.

The King surveyed each of them, her gaze and expression giving away less than a marble statue's. Finally, it was her voice that broke the silence, "Ser Lancelot. Ser Tristan. Ser Gawain. Ser Merlin. I see you've all returned unharmed."

"Indeed we have, Arthur," Merlin started, smiling, hoping the familiarity would help him get rid of the lump in his throat. Much to his displeasure and lack of surprise, it did not.

"Your mission was successful?"

"Very, Your Majesty," Gawain took over, and for once, the Mage was happy to hear the Knight of the Sun's voice, "We recovered a great many books and documents, several of which Ser Merlin has already gotten to work on studying."

"Is there any indication of what Morgana is planning?" Ser Kay piped up, seeming every bit as tense as Merlin felt.

"Patience, Ser Kay," Arturia raised a hand, silencing any further questions from her Knights, "We will hear your report, from the beginning. I want to hear everything you know."

Merlin bit back a sigh, and stepped forwards, knowing that he would be expected to deliver the bulk of the report. Sometimes, being the smartest person in the room only served to make one's life harder.

"Morgana has set up her workshop in the northernmost fortress in Britain, as I had suspected," the Mage began, "She has gone to quite a bit of trouble to make it nigh impenetrable. The surrounding forest has been turned into a deathtrap."

"It looks fairly normal from the outside," Tristan interjected, "But barely a hundred feet in, the trees grow unnaturally large and thick; the road disappears entirely, and their roots carve out the landscape in a manner that is extremely difficult to navigate. Furthermore, the entire place gives off an air that interferes with one's sense of direction; were it not for Ser Merlin's guidance, we likely would have perished in that forest, simply because it is impossible for even a Knight to navigate. High level magic is a necessity for anyone to find their way through."

"It was like we had wandered into another world entirely," Lancelot stated, "The forest from the outside looks to stretch perhaps a dozen kilometers in total, but it felt far larger once we were in the thick of it."

"Even with an army marching shoulder to shoulder through the trees and advancing straight ahead, one would have difficulty making it through," Gawain crossed his arms, "Not helping matters were those… what did you call them, Mage?"

"Golems," Merlin stated, "Animate stone statues the size of siege engines. Slow, but very powerful, and extremely deadly in close quarters combat," he scratched at an itch, "The only reason we came out of that skirmish unscathed is because they were made to face enemies in large numbers – the forest trees are perfect for forcing an army to separate into small, manageable groups, but not so small that they would have lots of room to maneuver. A smaller group comprised of elite fighters is better equipped to handle them."

"How many did you destroy?" Ser Agravain asked, eyes narrowed.

"One."

"Out of how many?" Agravain's tone was one of impatience, so much so that one could practically hear his teeth grinding against each other between each word he bit out.

Merlin shrugged, "Unfortunately, we don't know."

"Morgana's golems were scattered throughout her forest," said Tristan, "We didn't have the visibility nor the resources to log how many there may have been without engaging in further conflict – something we deliberately tried to avoid."

Ser Agravain seemed greatly displeased as he processed this information, his ever-present scowl deepening even further than usual. Finally, however, he gave a reluctant sigh of acceptance, "Very well. Proceed."

Smirking slightly, Merlin continued, "The fortress seemed to be under a very similar enchantment. I don't remember what it looked like to begin with, but it had been magically transformed to resemble a castle more than anything else – and a very large one at that, perhaps even larger than Camelot. The river that once made a simple moat has been transformed into a lake, and the outer walls run around the entire body of water. If it were fully intact, we would have had far more difficulty getting in than we did.

"Aside from the sprawling design, the castle didn't seem to have any further Defences beyond traps – both magical and mundane, which, if I might add, were no trouble for me to avoid," Merlin felt his smile grow slightly; though he felt the gazes upon him abruptly sharpen, he did not regret the opportunity he took to stroke his own ego. However, he quickly sobered, "That is, until we reached the bell tower beneath Morgana's workshop. She's learned how to make chimeras – magical beasts formed by fusing multiple animals together."

"… that sounds like a truly depraved kind of magic," Ser Percival murmured.

"It is," Lancelot confirmed, "The thing was not only massive and powerful, but clearly in great agony. I shudder to think that someone could truly bring themselves to create such a beast, let alone the idea that they might do so multiple times. I had to unleash Arondight's power to finish it off."

"During the fight, it broke Ser Lancelot's arm and fended off the rest of us with power close to that of the golem's, but with far greater speed and ferocity," Gawain spoke, looking to Arturia, "You chose well in sending us along, Your Majesty," he then looked to the other Knights who were seated at the table, "I mean no disrespect to anyone present, but any Knight less skilled in the way of combat than I or Lancelot would have been slaughtered. Morgana's creations, be they stone or flesh, are truly fearsome."

"Making it worse is the exact combination of animals she used to make it," Merlin again piped up, "She used three creatures, the first two being a wolf and a goat. I'm sure that image is nightmarish in and of itself, but the third she used is an animal not native to this land – a saltwater crocodile."

"I have not heard of such an animal," Ser Gareth mused.

"… I have," Ser Palamedes's expression was grave, "I have not heard of a saltwater crocodile, but I know the animal itself well – a large, stout lizard with leather-like scales akin to armour, and a bite strong enough to break bones with ease. They typically live in rivers in the lands east and south of my homeland."

Merlin nodded, "And saltwater crocodiles are the largest type of all, living far, far to the southeast – so far that I doubt Palamedes has even heard of the lands they are native to."

"Meaning," Ser Bedivere surmised, "that Morgana somehow has access to creatures from across the world that we haven't even heard of with which to make her monsters."

"Correct," Merlin nodded, and even his three companions seemed stunned by the revelation. Unfortunately, the Mage wasn't finished. He sighed again; this was the part he had been looking forwards to the least, "I'm afraid… that isn't the worst of what we found there."

Even now, the King remained largely impassive, her eyes only narrowing slightly at the information presented. Finally, she gestured, "Go on."

Merlin turned to Lancelot, and nodded. The Knight of the Lake stepped forwards, and gently set the bundle in his arms on the table before pulling the top layer away.

Everyone at the Round Table seemed to let out a collective gasp at the sight of the sleeping child; Guinevere, who had remained silent up to this point, had her hands clapped over her mouth in shock. Kay was staring, open mouthed, as was Bedivere. Agravain's expression was one of disbelief, and even Arturia herself felt her eyes widen and her jaw go slightly slack, if only for a few seconds. Not because of the fact that an infant had been brought to the meeting, but because of the truly eerie resemblance…

"… it looks almost exactly like the King," Ser Gareth murmured. He seemed to want to stand to inspect the child more closely, but remained in his seat.

"But… but that's impossible," Ser Percival managed, "The King doesn't have any children."

"… perhaps… the King eloped-?"

"Don't be an idiot!" Gawain abruptly snarled, the sheer viciousness in his tone making Ser Gaheris recoil so violently he nearly fell out of his chair. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that had the Knight of the Sun been close enough, he'd have struck his youngest brother, "The King has never eloped with anyone! The fact that you are even considering such a thing makes me question your position, Gaheris!"

"Ser Gawain," Arturia called, making the eldest of the siblings freeze. She stared him down with all the intensity of a lion, her mask back in place, but her tone dangerous, "If you cannot remain calm, I will have you wait outside for the remainder of this meeting."

"… but… Your Majesty," Gawain started, looking at his brother again. However, when he met Arturia's gaze once more, he almost seemed to shrink; his head and shoulders fell, and he bit at his lip, "… as you wish, my King."

Once he was sure that his older brother had sufficiently calmed, Gareth spoke up once more, "Where did the child come from?"

"We suspect that Morgana has turned to kidnapping, though for what reason we are yet to-"

"The child wasn't kidnapped."

Merlin's declaration cut off Lancelot's voice, and the room was plunged into silence.

"… what do you mean, Merlin?" The Knight of the Lake's voice was deathly quiet.

The sigh that followed was long and heavy – the sound one makes when attempting to take up a truly heavy burden. The Mage glanced about the room, "… You're all aware that King Arthur has no heir, despite being married for approximately a decade now. He and Lady Guinevere have been trying with… minimal success."

It wasn't technically a lie; Arturia was King, after all, but being a woman, she could not normally produce an heir.

Merlin opened his mouth to continue, but a voice cut him off.

"Merlin," Arturia's tone was one of warning, eyes narrowed, "You agreed you would keep that to yourself."

The Mage shook his head, "I am sorry, Arthur, but… this is deeply connected to the issue at hand. I have no choice if you wish to know the child's origins."

Arturia's mask, for the first time in years, threatened to crack under her frustration; her jaw was visibly set, and she seemed ready to protest Merlin's exposure of her privacy further. However, she swallowed her pride, "Very well. But this had better be as important to the matter at hand as you claim."

"Believe me. I wish it wasn't," Merlin cleared his throat, "Several months ago, Arthur came to me looking for… assistance in producing an heir. I used my magic to increase his virility, and thus increase the likelihood of conception."

Again, not technically a lie. Because she couldn't very well have a child with another woman, the King certainly could not marry a man, and Arturia was not willing to break her vows, she needed a way to produce an heir. Something Merlin had happily provided her, if only temporarily.

"But, you see… there was an issue. That night, Arthur told me he had been with Guinevere… but Guinevere claimed that she had not so much as seen hide nor hair of Arthur until the following morning."

"… and what does that have to do with the child?" Tristan asked.

Merlin pulled a book from his robes – one of Morgana's many notebooks – and set it on the table beside the child, "I didn't know what to make of it myself, at first…"

That was a bold faced lie. Merlin knew damn well what happened, and Arturia knew that he did. All he could do was thank whatever powers that be that the other Knights were not aware of his powers of clairvoyance as well.

"… but I began decoding Morgana's notes on the return trip from her fortress. Somehow, she knew about my arrangement with Arthur," he opened the book, flipping through the pages, "It says here that she knew what she needed to do in order to create a weapon strong enough to destroy Camelot; it goes on to describe how she infiltrated the castle, and stole away to the King's room in the dead of night… how she disguised herself as… I'm sorry, My Lady," he looked straight at Guinevere, and for what it was worth, he genuinely meant it, "… how Morgana disguised herself as 'Arthur's whore'… and made the most of his boosted virility."

None of the Knights dared to speak. Guinevere looked visibly sick, the colour having drained from her face and her posture in a slouch. She opened her mouth, and closed it again, her shocked expression clearly displaying her horror.

Merlin cast his gaze down upon the child, "She carried the fetus for a full nine months. She used magic to alter its development, transforming it from a relatively normal baby into a homunculus and ultimately gave birth to it. The result was an infant with incredible magical power – bearing the blood of a fairy, the manufactured strength of a homunculus… and the raw magical power of a Dragon, inherited from King Arthur."

He raised his head, "That… is what you see here before you. The bastard child of Arthur Pendragon and Morgana le Faye."

In the seconds that followed, Merlin could feel the building outrage in the room. Finally, it all exploded – the Knights were arguing amongst themselves, reduced to a backdrop of shouts and struggle. Tristan and Lancelot were struggling to hold Gawain back from the child, and Bedivere was attempting to reassert order over the group.

It all stopped at the sound of metal slamming into wood; Arturia's gauntleted fist had collided with the armrest of her chair hard enough to splinter the carpentry.

It was the first time Merlin had seen her visibly enraged in over twenty years. Her eyes were open and her brow was furrowed, and her lips were pulled back in just enough of a snarl to expose the teeth that were pressing into each other so hard it was a miracle her gums weren't bleeding under the force of her own jaw. She looked about the room at each Knight, all of whom remained stock still, having never seen this from her even once in their time serving as her Knights.

"That. Is. Enough."

The words came through her teeth, her jaw pressing too tightly for her to properly move it. Nonetheless, it was enough to have them all falling back into their respective places.

"Ser Lancelot. Ser Gawain. Ser Tristan. Take your seats."

They heard, and they obeyed, moving to take their seats. On impulse, Lancelot moved to pick up the child, but a glare – not a mere glance or meeting of gazes, but an actual glare from Arturia made him stop. Reluctantly, he left the infant where she lay, and took his seat.

"… We will review the other aspects of your report later," Arturia's words almost sounded like they were being bitten out one at a time, likely from her struggle to speak around her slated teeth, "For now… we need to decide what will be done with _that_."

"… we can't just let it go," Ser Kay finally spoke.

"Obviously not," Ser Bedivere swallowed.

"She is just a baby," Lancelot stated, his voice strained, "Whatever plans Morgana had for her were foiled the moment we took her. We don't need to enforce any harsher measures than that."

"Oh, you think so?" Gawain snapped. Out of all the Knights present, he was the one who seemed to share most strongly in Arturia's sentiments – from the way he was trembling and glaring at the infant, he seemed beside himself with anger, "That _thing_ is not only Morgana's attempt at creating a weapon powerful enough to destroy the King, it is a stain upon the honour and dignity of both the King and the Queen. It should be erased – it may not remove what Morgana has done, but it will at least rid us of a potential threat."

"Brother, how could you say such a thing!?" Gareth cried, getting to his feet, "Are you honestly going to pin Morgana's deeds on an innocent child!?"

"Are you going to ignore what Morgana has done, Gareth?" Gawain growled.

"You cannot hold a _baby_ responsible for the actions of a _Witch_!"

"I, for one," Ser Agravain started, tone cold, "agree with Ser Gawain," the way he gazed upon the infant seemed to say everything he had to say about her – he looked upon her as though she were garbage, something to be removed and burned or buried without so much as a thought of mercy, "It is a creation of Morgana. It is a threat, and should therefore be destroyed."

"Now, hold on-," Ser Bedivere stood, only to be cut off by Ser Palamedes. Again, the Knights had begun to argue with each other, the volume quickly rising until he could barely hear once Knight over another.

The first Knight of the Round Table grit his teeth, and roared, "Will you get ahold of yourselves!?"

He paused, waiting for a moment as the noise began to die down. When he was sure they were all paying attention to him, Bedivere spoke again, "Here you all sit, Knights of the Round Table. And yet, when addressed with any matter involving Morgana, you're reduced to bickering children!"

Once more, Bedivere paused, surveying their reactions before continuing, "I'm certain that everyone here knows that arguing amongst ourselves will get us nowhere. We all have things to say and positions to take, but you are all so strongly possessed by your emotions on this matter that you seem unwilling to calm yourselves for even an instant to listen! How are we supposed to come to any reasonable conclusion if we can't even hear one another?"

At the very least, the other Knights seemed to be calming, however begrudgingly; Bedivere had to keep himself from letting out a sigh of relief, instead keeping himself steeled should one of them pipe up again.

"… now then. The issue of the child is… delicate, to say the least. There isn't a single person in this room who doesn't feel strongly about it, in one way or another. But unless we can discuss it in a calm and civilized manner, we won't get anywhere."

"… then what would you suggest, Ser Bedivere?" Agravain asked, eyes narrowed.

"… I propose a vote," he said, looking to Arturia, "That, I think, will bring us to the most reasonable conclusion in a timely manner."

For a moment, it seemed as though Arturia were contemplating refusing Bedivere's advice. Instead, however, she gave a harsh breath through her teeth, "Proceed."

He nodded, and then addressed the rest of the Round Table again, "We are going to put this to a vote. We will address everyone in a clockwise fashion, starting with Ser Kay. Then Ser Percival. Then Ser Agravain. And so on. When it is your turn, please stand, cast your vote, and explain the reasoning behind your decision. When we reach the King, you will have one last chance to reconsider your decision. Are we in agreement?"

The lack of protest was taken as a unanimous agreement. After a moment, Ser Kay, son of Ser Ector and Arturia's adoptive brother, rose to his feet, his long brown hair swept back. His expression remained twisted in conflict for a long moment before he sighed, "I vote we eliminate the child."

A murmur rippled through the remaining Knights, though they allowed him to continue, "… I do not approve of killing children any under circumstances. Much less infants," Kay said, "However… the fact remains that she was made by Morgana. The Witch was trained by Merlin himself for reasons I am yet to understand myself; she is extremely wily. I doubt that she intended for the child to be brought here, but there is no doubt in my mind that she will be able to find a way to twist the situation to her advantage. We should err on the side of caution and put an end to this before anything can come of it."

With that, he sat back down, his head falling into his hands.

Ser Percival stood next, smoothing out his flowing moustaches, "I vote that we spare the child," he adjusted his cloak, "I was raised by my mother in the wild, away from the world of men, for the first fifteen years of my life. I may have noble blood running through my veins, but the man I am today has very little to do with that fact. I became a Knight, and a decent man, on my own merits, not because of the blood that runs through my veins. At this point, the child's origins, as well as her original purpose, are irrelevant."

When Percival returned to his seat, Agravain in turn rose, expression dark, "I vote we eliminate it. It is Morgana's spawn, a weapon created with the immense magical potential of the King, and proof of her latest plans to destroy Britain; even with the crimes committed aside, surely you can all see the immense threat it poses by simply existing. I see nothing further for us to debate."

With that, he sat back down, ignoring the glares several of the other Knights sent his way.

Gawain was next. He cracked his jaw as he stood, "I vote for elimination as well. This _thing_ isn't worth pitying; it resulted from Morgana's rape of the King using the form of the Queen. And as Agravain said, it was made to be a weapon against Britain; even if its origins weren't so heinous, I don't need to remind any of you that one of Morgana's specialties is twisting innocents into monsters."

Ser Tristan stood quickly after Gawain had finished. He paused, then shook his head, "I believe it would be best to spare the child," he bowed his head, red locks obscuring his face, "She has been removed from Morgana's presence. In the hands of a loving caretaker, there is no question that the child could become a wonderful person," he raised his head, his golden eyes flashing brightly in the light, "I myself lost my parents at a very early age, and yet never once was I mistreated by those within my home afterwards; if you need proof of what she may yet become, I ask that you look to me."

Ser Palamedes rubbed at the ring on his finger as Tristan sat down, a silver band set with lapis lazuli, as he looked about his companions, "I would see the little one spared as well. My life has been a long and tumultuous one. I have travelled across many lands. I have seen many things. While the circumstances behind the little one's birth are regrettable, they should not be laid at her feet. Fate is a fickle thing; if you had told me I would swear fealty to a King in a distant land I had not even heard of eighteen years ago when I was but a travelling mercenary, I might have slit your throat," he looked to Arturia, "And yet, here I stand. The loyal Knight of a land far removed from my ancestral home. There is no telling what the future holds in store for us. This does not necessarily bode ill."

Ser Gaheris stood then, his eyes going back and forth between his siblings; Gareth was looking to him as though seeking his support, asking him to spare the infant. Gawain, on the other hand, had leveled a smoldering glower at him so intense that one might wonder if the elder brother were willing him to burst into flames then and there. Ultimately he shook his head, "I vote that we eliminate it. As often as Gawain and I disagree, this isn't the time for a petty squabble," he looked to the infant, expression apologetic, "I take no pleasure in this. But I must cast my vote in the best interests of the realm. Morgana's influence proves too great a threat, regardless of the form it takes."

As he sat down, Gareth's expression fell slightly, clearly disappointed that his younger brother had been cowed into submission, but nonetheless, he tried to give Gaheris a supportive smile… before his face darkened upon looking at Gawain, again.

When the Knight of the Lake stood, his voice remained strong as ever – if anything, it seemed stronger, the vehemence in his tone having redoubled without descending into anger, "I vote that we let the child live," one by one, his gaze met each Knight as he spoke. In particular, he seemed to be leveling his glare upon Gawain, "I find this entire vote to be completely unacceptable, both as a Knight, and as a father. Some of you would see the child executed merely because of her connection to Morgana. Some of you even see fit to see her as equally guilty of Morgana's crimes. If that is honestly what you believe to be just, then I would request that you re-evaluate why you are here, and why you were given the position of Knight of the Round Table."

He paused, and looked to the sleeping child again, "I'll have no part in it. New life... is innocent and pure. It does not carry with it the sins or crimes of the ones who created it, nor should we condemn them for things they didn't do. We do not choose our parents; the fact that this one was born to Morgana, and made for such a vile purpose is merely a cruel hand dealt to an innocent victim," he glanced up at Arturia, though she did not give him any response, "The safest thing to do would be to raise her here, within the walls of Camelot – safe and secluded from Morgana's legacy and intentions."

Having said his piece, Lancelot returned to his seat; Gareth was immediately on his feet, his breaths loud enough to be heard, "I cast my vote with Lancelot. There shouldn't even be a vote on the matter of whether to spare or execute a child," he cast his gaze among everyone else at the table, "We are the Knights of the Round Table. Our duty is to serve the realm and protect those who cannot protect themselves. In what way are we upholding that simple code if we execute a newborn, regardless of her parentage?"

He shook his head, "No. Knights do not kill children. A Knight should not even consider such an action. If you seriously intend to kill this child… then you are a disgrace to the very concept of Knighthood," as Gareth spoke, he was glaring at Gawain with such intensity that one thought he might throw himself at his older brother… but ultimately, he took in one last breath, and sat back down.

Bedivere bit at his lip as the Knights all looked to him. Slowly, he rose, heart heavy with doubt as he considered the council laid before him. Both sides of the vote had raised compelling points, but his greatest worry was for the King. He had seen her sit through reports of massacres without so much as flinching, and listened as she declared the destruction of villages for the sake of ridding her land of invaders to be unfortunate necessities without so much as a quiver in her voice.

To see the King like this – to see her so angry it was now visible on her face, in her posture, and audibly bled into her tone – scared Bedivere. He felt no shame in admitting that to himself; he might have seen an occasional flinch of sorrow or anger, but not once in his service of nearly two and a half decades to the King had he seen Arturia react like this, seeing her angry enough to actually physically lash out, even if she only struck her chair. Biting his lip, he cast his gaze downwards…

"I vote we eliminate the child," he stated, tone reluctant, but resolute. After a moment, he raised his head, "You have all presented very compelling arguments for both sides of this debate. But I must say that the potential threats pose far too great a risk. I am sorry, but in the Defence of the realm… sometimes, one must stain their hands."

He sat back down, praying that he had made the right decision.

For a long moment, silence reigned over the Round Table; at the moment, it was five votes for an execution, and five votes to spare the child.

"… if I may," the Queen's voice echoed through the room, "Might I speak on the matter?"

Arturia glanced up at her as she stepped forwards to stand at the table. Guinevere was still in shock, at least to a degree – she was still pale, and seemed to be having some difficulty keeping her voice even, her tone wavering with every word spoken. Nonetheless, she continued, "… this is a matter that heavily involves me. I believe that I have every right to a vote of my own."

"… Very well," Arturia said.

Guinevere swallowed, and then slowly walked over to the child on the table, still asleep. She was so small, wrapped in those blankets with her head peeking through the fabric, the mop of golden hair so similar to Arturia's own…

The Queen brushed the child's hair away, and slowly traced her face with a finger before giving a slow smile, looking up to face the Round Table, "I vote that the child be spared."

A murmur of surprise rippled among the Knights. Even Arturia's fury could not completely override her surprise at the Queen's decision. But before anyone could vocalize their thoughts, Guinevere continued, "I will not lie... the origins of this child do shock and horrify me. Even now, I cannot hide my fears on just what Morgana planned to do us with this child... but in my heart... I know that this all the more reason to spare the child; she did not ask for this. She did not ask to be born an enemy of the realm. And while defending Camelot is a task we should never shirk away from, neither should we punish the victims of fate. To do so would be needlessly cruel, and we would all start going down a path I refuse to follow."

A moment's pause as she gathered her bearings, wiping at her eyes, though no tears had fallen. She gazed upon the Knights then, heart bare and voice beseeching, "If we choose to execute the child, what message does that carve on our hearts? Secrecy? Cloak and dagger deception for 'the greater good'? Where do we draw the line? When do we pass difficult but necessary choices and descend into barbarism? Killing a child for a perceived threat is a coward's tactic. One that Morgana would applaud us for making. I won't be the one to give her that satisfaction."

The room was silent, but the impact of the words unmistakable. Even Gawain's expression softened, if only slightly; the only one who seemed truly unaffected was Ser Agravain, who remained stubbornly resolute.

"Well, now," Merlin stepped forwards, an eyebrow raised, "That was quite the speech, My Lady. I'm impressed you have found it in yourself to look past the crimes committed against you for the sake of this child."

Guinevere's soft smile grew if only slightly, and she closed her eyes…

"… but I'm afraid I must counter it," the Mage said.

The Queen's eyes snapped open, mouth opening slightly as he turned to face the Knights.

"I vote for the child's elimination."

Merlin's tone was utterly devoid of humour as he made his declaration, expression as cold as Arturia's might have been on any other day. He paused, letting his words sink in before he began his explanation, "I understand why most of you are so reluctant to condemn a child. If anything, the fact that some among you are so eager to condemn her is actually rather worrisome," he looked at the infant again, clicking his tongue, "I can see the merits of raising the little one away from Morgana. It could do a lot of good; even with morals set aside, something so powerful could prove to be an incredible asset in the future.

"But on the other hand, we would have to be extremely careful. One misstep could easily bring the whole house of cards we would have to construct crashing down. We would need to fabricate a way for her to exist within Camelot without arousing suspicion; we would need to keep a close eye on her development at all times; and above all, we would have to strive to keep Morgana's influence completely away from her. Even if she doesn't make any active attempts to get the child back, we all know that Morgana will try to reach her somehow… and we also know how trusting and foolish children can be. Once a viper gets into the nest…"

He trailed off, and the silence that followed was cold. He lowered his head slightly, "I take no pleasure in my vote. If there were an easy way of going about this, I may have a different decision. But sparing her involves building a life that we would have to strictly monitor and control; it may only take one mistake for it to spiral completely out of control, and cause more damage than what we may potentially prevent. As distasteful as it may seem, eliminating her may be the best solution for the Kingdom in the long run."

With that, the Mage fell silent, and let his words sink in to the room around him.

It was Ser Bedivere who found his voice first, looking about the table, "Is there anyone that would care to change their vote?"

No one spoke, or even raised their hand.

"This is your last chance. If you have something to add, or wish to change your decision, then speak now. Otherwise, forever hold your piece."

Still, no one moved, and nothing was said.

"… then it appears we are at a stalemate," Bedivere said, sighing, "It is six votes against six votes."

"Not quite, Ser Bedivere."

Arturia had finally spoken again, eyes narrowed; she seemed to have regained her composure, though rather than dispassion, her expression was one of grim determination, anger still smoldering in her eyes. She stood, "As the King of Britain and a Knight of the Round Table, I still have my own vote to cast.

"I vote for the elimination of Morgana's weapon."

Not 'infant.' Not 'child.' Weapon.

No further explanation was needed.

"… but…" Lancelot's mouth was dry, and he felt as though he were in a daze. This wasn't happening. This _couldn't_ be happening, "… Your Majesty…"

"… you can't be serious," Gareth murmured. It was only when Arturia stepped away from her chair to walk around the table that Gareth finally found his voice again, "Your Majesty!"

"The vote is seven to six," Arturia intoned, "A conclusion has been reached."

"My liege," Ser Percival started, "You aren't seriously letting your anger get the better of you!?"

"I am angry, Ser Percival. Not blind."

"I would beg to differ," Tristan was on his feet; his jaw was set and his fists were clenched, "You cannot honestly believe that an infant deserves execution."

"What it deserves and what needs to be done are two very different things, Ser Tristan."

"Your Majesty, please!" Lancelot finally found his voice again. He had leaped to his feet, standing before his King, a torrent of fear and panic rising in his chest as his blood beat through his ears.

"Stand aside, Ser Lancelot."

"No one is asking you to raise the child yourself!"

"Stand aside."

"She has done nothing wrong!"

"Stand. Aside, Ser Lancelot. I will not ask again."

Lancelot stood in silence for a long moment, then looked to the other Knights, looking for some form of support; though he saw various expressions of protest and outrage, he knew there was nothing they could do.

There was nothing that he could do.

Knowing that disobeying further would not do any good for anyone, Lancelot slowly shuffled to the side, gripping the edge of his chair as the King strode past, approaching the infant.

This time, it was Guinevere who stepped forwards; she looked Arturia in the eye, praying that she would be able to reach the King's heart, just this once, "Arthur, please…"

Arturia remained silent for a long moment, studying her Queen; Guinevere was clearly distraught, tears welling up in her eyes and posture outstretched, as though hoping to somehow protect the child from her.

However, she knew what needed to be done; this decision was already difficult enough as it was. She needed to keep her heart and mind encased in steel. Let no weakness sway her.

"… Please Guinevere. I have made my decision," she spoke, soft, but firm, "I do not expect you to agree with it. But I do expect you to abide by it. Please, stand aside. Don't make this any harder than it needs to be."

"… no," the Queen shook her head, tears now freely streaming down her face, "No. I won't let you do this to yourself, Arthur. I won't."

Arturia remained silent for a long moment, then sighed, closing her eyes, "… Ser Gawain."

Guinevere's heart skipped a beat, and before she knew it, the Knight of the Sun had an arm wrapped around her shoulders and was hauling her away from the sleeping child.

"No!" she shouted, immediately struggling against him, but Gawain was not only much larger and heavier, but considerably stronger and better trained. All she could do was yell as she uselessly scrabbled against the Knight's firm grip and heavy armour, "No! Arthur! For God's sake, listen to me, for once in your life! Please!"

Arturia did not respond. Couldn't afford to, lest her resolve fail her against the emotions running amok within. She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, to ignore the Queen's cries, stepping up to the bundle and pulling it into her arms.

"Arthur!"

She reached for her belt, and pulled out the dagger from its sheath; a short, double edged blade intended to break through the weak points in armour. The very least she could offer was a quick end.

"ARTHUR!"

Arturia studied the blade for a moment, then in turn looked to the child in her – no, the homunculus... the creation of Morgana... in her arm, frowning as she debated on how to administer the killing blow with as little suffering or bloodshed as possible.

She would not allow Britain to fall. If she needed to, she would shoulder all the world's evils to keep her country alive and well.

But then the bundle began to shift, her mind grinding to a sudden and utter halt.

Without any prompt or warning, the baby slowly started to stir in Arturia's arms, the movements faint but still enough to distract her, drawing the King away from the moment at hand to look at the bundle in her arms. The teal eyes of the baby met the identical teal eyes of her father. Despite the knife angled so close, the baby seemed more curious than afraid, hands reaching out far enough that Arturia unconsciously moved the knife away to prevent a potential injury.

'It... it really does look like me...'

The thought was... surprisingly calming, the burning rage within starting to cool, her tight grip loosening slightly...

No. Focus! This was one of Morgana's sick, twisted games. She knew what had to be done. Staying her hand now would only –

A giggle, as innocent and pure as it was adorable. Even now, knife in hand and intending to end its life, the baby was completely unafraid of her. It felt safe... happy... to be in her arms. It trusted her completely.

Her resolve was breaking. She could feel it slipping away. How could she justify letting this happen? Merlin was right. This was for the better of the realm. Everything she had sacrificed, everything she swore to uphold since she willingly drew the sword from the stone... it would end in disaster if she let the child live. How... how...

Another burbling laugh. The child's face was one of pure happiness. Pure trust. It wanted to play, hands out, trying to reach out for her.

... How could she rightly claim it was for the good of the realm to kill one who trusted her so completely in cold blood?...

That, more than anything, made her already fragile resolve crumble away entirely. With a long, drawn out sigh, she slid her knife back into its sheath.

"Take the child to the guest bedchambers," She ordered, voice just barely concealing the weariness that had settled over her as she offered the baby back to Lancelot.

He was quick to take her back in his arms (the child squirmed a bit with the exchange, but otherwise remained blissfully unaware of its predicament), but his face betrayed his uncertainty, "Your Majesty?"

"It has been a very long day. Enough blood has been spilled in this venture," Arturia couldn't look anyone in the eye, but her voice had already regained its coldness and authority, concealing her true thoughts from those around her, "I have changed my vote. It is now seven to six, in favour of sparing the child. It... may stay within these walls for now."

The Knight of the Lake bowed as deeply as the baby in his arms would allow, "Thank you, Your Majesty."

A slight nod from the King, and he departed immediately, not willing to test her sudden display of mercy to Morgana's creation.

She looked to Ser Gawain, who was nothing short of flabbergasted, and holding an equally shocked Guinevere by the shoulders. Arturia gestured, "You may release her now, Gawain."

It took a moment for the order to register, but the Knight of the Sun released the Queen, who promptly pulled away from him. Guinevere stared at her husband, tears again welling in her eyes, "Oh, Arthur…"

Arturia did not respond. Instead, she turned to the remaining Knights of the Round Table, "The rest of you are dismissed. See to it that this development is kept quiet. I do not want anyone outside this room knowing about the child until we are ready to handle the situation."

Some of the Knights looked like they still had questions and concerns they longed to address, but none gave them voice, obeying their King's orders without question until only Guinevere and Merlin remained. As the doors shut behind them, another sigh made it's way past the King's lips, a hand coming up to try and rub away the headache that was now making itself known. What a day this had turned out to be...

Guinevere's hands, soft and delicate, took her husband's free hand into her own. Her smile was faint but present, eyes delicate yet hopeful.

"Thank you, Arthur. I know it was a difficult decision to make, but I believe you made the right choice."

Arturia said nothing, not trusting herself to speak just yet. What was happening to her, to make her suddenly so uncertain, so... imperfect?

Knowing she would find no answers at the moment, she turned to Merlin, trying to change the subject, "Does it... does the child have a name?"

Merlin shrugged, true thoughts on the matter concealed. As difficult as this new situation was, there was surely no harm in divulging that piece of information, "I'm still trying to decode Morgana's documents. Her encryption methods are very thorough, but I have found some common words and phrasings throughout," he waited until the King and Queen were both watching, waiting to hear his answer, "Mordred. Her name is Mordred."

"Mordred..." Guinevere repeated under her breath. The grip on Arturia's hand tightened for a moment, then eased.

"A fine name, all things considered," the jest felt flat even in his own years. Better to leave now before things got even worse, "I'll take my leave now. So many documents to search through, so little time. My King... My Lady."

The doors thudded shut behind him a moment later, leaving the King and Queen along in the giant room. It felt surprisingly hollow now. As if the life and power that normally radiated within had been drained until only a faint flicker of its fire remained. Everything was changing so rapidly it seemed, the future now uncertain and not sure how to react to recent developments.

"Are you sure of this?"

The question was sudden, and it took Guinevere a moment to register Arturia had spoken. When she did not reply, Arturia asked again.

"Are you sure this is what you wish? If this is what you want, there will be no turning back."

Was this what Guinevere wanted? She had vouched strongly to keep Mordred alive, but now that the decision was made, Arthur was still giving her a chance to back out, to find an alternative if she desired. It was the closest the King had ever been to uncertain in the entire time they had known one another. A subtle hint that her husband would offer her no ill will if she decided to go back on her word.

And yet...

"... I am," she finally declared. Words soft, yet wrapped in the strongest steel, "No matter what happens, I will stand by my decision. Nothing will convince me otherwise."

Arthur stared back at her, emotions hidden but eyes surprisingly bright, "...Then we will keep the child. We will be vigilant, but it will remain within Camelot's walls."

"Thank you, Arturia..." the sound of the King's true name sent chills down her spine, "I promise, she'll be a good addition to the family some day."

"I said it could stay," Whereas the previous words had been soft and accommodating, this statement was cold and sharp, pulling the hand away abruptly as Arturia turned away, "That doesn't make it my child."

Without another word, the King departed the hall entirely, the very image of the perfect King of Camelot, leaving Guinevere all alone with her thoughts.

* * *

Hey guys. How much did you enjoy chapter 2?

We'll be trying to update once every two weeks on Saturdays; we just happened to get this chapter done before our self imposed deadline. Things are about to get hectic for me, so don't be surprised if we take a full two weeks this time around.

Anyways, onto the review responses!

 **kyugan** \- Yeah, we're hoping things go better for her this time as well.

 **The Joining** \- Holy crap, that was a long review! Thanks for all the input, man!

Good for want of a nail stories are rare indeed; people have an unfortunate reluctance to break from canon in any real way, which, though understandable, means that the story ultimately doesn't have much change. This is one case where the change will completely break from canon - it is impossible at this point to return to the main story from which this diverges, as a new chain of events is set off. The Battle of Camlann may not even exist in this tale, and even if it does, it will not take place for the same reasons or have the same participants.

We're glad you enjoyed the descriptions, and how we broke down Mordred's potential; really, when you think about it, Mordred in canon should actually have potential to be stronger than Arturia because of the nature of her existence.

We hope to continue to impress!

 **Holix25** \- Heh. Glad to hear you like how we've started out!

Unfortunately, we will be trying to keep this particular story separate from any other time period in the Fate series. In short, this is a story of the Round Table - no other people from any other time period, from past or future, will be making an appearance unless things go horribly wrong - in which case you may see a Counter Guardian or two. But no actual Servants or Masters, unfortunately, and no Grail Wars either.

That said, we hope you continue to enjoy the story!

 **ROCuevas** \- Glad to hear you're enjoying the story!

 **Guest** \- Heh. Trust me. We have no intention of stopping. Not this time.

 **adhityapramata** \- Well, we can't give you any spoilers, but suffice to say Mordred will have different parental figures this time around.

 **coronadomontes** \- Thank you very much.

 **miguelgiuliano. co** \- Heh. Glad to hear we made a good first impression!

Unfortunately, Mash will not be making an appearance in this story; despite the fact that she fused with Galahad to become a Demi-Servant, she and Galahad are still separate existences from one another. She does not simply replace his existence; Galahad does exist in this timeline, but Mash is, unfortunately, a millennium and a half in the future, and cannot come to this time period outside of the event of a Singularity.

That said, we hope to continue to impress. Also, sorry for breaking your name up like that - for some reason treats it like a link and deletes it if we try and put in as one piece.

 **King of Fans** \- Heh! Indeed. The only two people among the Round Table who have any experience with parenting at all are Lancelot and Merlin - and we're not sure if we'd trust Merlin with any children...

But again, as we stated above, Mash will not be making an appearance in this story. Despite their fusion, Mash and Galahad are still two separate existences from two vastly different time periods.

While this news is unfortunate, we hope that you continue to enjoy the story.

 **aleguille** \- Thank you very much.

 **deathuser7273** \- Heh. Well that didn't take very long, did it? We hope you enjoyed!

As always, Batomys2731 and I will be posting this on our DeviantART accounts within a few days; if you can't give us feedback here, then please drop by and give us your feedback there. Every little bit helps the development of the story.

Thanks for reading!


	3. A Princess Revealed

First, a note from Batomys2731.

Hello everyone. This is Batomys2731, co-writer of Knight of the Heart. Jarl and I apologize for the delay. He's in New York at the moment, and I'm dealing with University finals.

To everyone who has read and reviewed, thank you so much! It's very heartwarming to see so many people like the story! We hope you continue to enjoy as new chapters are added.

...

And now, on with the show!

Batomys2731 and I do not own TYPE-MOON or Fate or any properties thereof. If we did, there would be FAR fewer Saberfaces... seriously, what is with their fascination with that face?...

...

* * *

Ser Agravain was a man who never knew any true peace of mind.

With a self assured gait that seemed more coldly confident than haughty, armour of dark, mottled grey that seemed to border on black, the same black as his swept back hair, and a face that didn't seem capable of showing warmth even if he were to try, Agravain wasn't someone others approached on principle. Rather, he was a man approached when he was needed – and that was how he preferred it.

He wasn't like his siblings – especially not Ser Gawain, who reveled in the glory of being a Knight and performed his duty with a gleaming smile on his face no matter what that duty may be, and took full advantage of the women who would swoon for his affections, no matter how briefly they were offered.

Nor was he like Ser Lancelot – a man of honour and chivalry who was the standard by which every Knight of this generation, and likely the next few, would be measured by, hailed as the "Perfect Knight" despite some truly unfortunate mistakes on his part. His bastard child was something of an open secret among the Round Table – one most of the others met with understanding and pity.

He couldn't even say he was like Ser Bedivere, the Knight of the Round Table who had been with their King the longest. Though they more or less had the same duty of secretary and advisor to the King, their behaviours were like night and day. Everything that Bedivere did was done in an attempt to ease the burden of the King; his loyalty came from a place of empathy. He honestly thought he understood how the King felt.

Agravain knew better.

King Arthur was not merely the incarnation of a Dragon. He was, truly, a Dragon – with all his incredible might, he had never once lost a battle, or, to Agravain's knowledge, even had his armour scratched. The Knights had watched as their King cut a bloody swathe through every battle he joined; every opponent he faced fell. Soldiers died with every swing of his holy blade. Even battlements and siege engines failed to stand against him, as they were smashed apart with a single blow. Once he joined the battle, the only way it would end was with the annihilation of the enemy, whatever tattered remnants of the opposing army that remained scattered to the wind.

Furthermore, ever since taking the throne, Arthur had ruled in a strong and flawless manner. Not once had emotion taken so much as a momentary sway over him to cloud his mind; his heart and mind were steel as unyielding as Excalibur itself. He knew exactly how harsh of punishments to administer to criminals and what needed to be done in the event of a crisis; he knew exactly what to reward a warrior, be they vaunted Knight or lowly mercenary, and did not hesitate to sacrifice the pieces needed to secure victory, be it a company of soldiers in battle or a village or two to repel invaders, however unfortunate it might have been.

Truly, how could someone with that kind of might, someone who was very clearly not human, be expected to behave in a human manner? How could someone with such impeccable and flawless judgement possibly be judged with human values?

And yet, that was exactly what troubled Agravain.

In all his years since coming to Camelot, never had he seen the King act so… so human… as he had the night the Court Mage and his posse had returned with Morgana's weapon in tow.

The anger Arthur exuded had been nothing short of palpable – it had practically created an aura that was impossible to ignore. He had even gone so far as to smash his chair in his fury; no matter how brief it was, no matter how quickly Arthur had reasserted control, he had, in that instant, been blinded by rage. And even then it continued to bleed into his behaviour for several long minutes afterwards, only managing to get a full hold of himself in the final moments before he adjourned the meeting.

Since then, the King seemed to have fully reasserted his cold outlook – his judgements remained impeccable, his heart returned to steel. And it had remained that way for four years.

And yet, the events of that night still echoed in Agravain's heart. They tugged at his mind and filled his heart with something he dreaded more than almost anything else – doubt.

It was a truly venomous emotion; doubt had been the cause of many a Kingdom's fall over the years. It led to slaughters, to betrayals, and to war – it was the root of the twelve wars King Arthur had to wage to unite Britain, when the other Kingdoms refused to fall into line, doubting the legitimacy of his claim to the throne. Even despite the fact that he had drawn Caliburn, the Sword of Selection, which would only respond to those worthy of the throne.

Agravain knew there was nothing to be gained in doubting the King. He had come to Camelot in hopes of establishing a strong leader for Britain, and arrived to find that the leader he desired was already there. Since then, he had served faithfully and without question – and would continue to do so until his dying day.

But he still knew in his heart of hearts – King Arthur had been somehow been swayed into making a truly grievous mistake. Sparing Morgana's weapon…

He shook his head, trying to clear himself of the swirling maelstrom of musings that threatened to overtake him as they had so many times before. Such thoughts were useless to him at this moment.

He snapped the reigns, prompting his horse further along the road through the forest. Agravain was returning from an audience with one of the "Kings" on the eastern borders of Britain. It seemed as though he had been engaging in unauthorized trade with some of the barbarian tribes in Germania – Agravain had gone to assess exactly what had been traded, and for what purpose. Unfortunately, he had not been able to obtain any sort of record or ledger of the supposed transaction, and the "King's" court and Knights were remaining tight-lipped, meaning the only reliable source of information Agravain had access to were the sailors themselves.

What he heard did not bode well; according to those involved, the trade had involved a very large amount of weapons, armour, iron and steel being transported out of Britain to Germania. Why, none knew; they had only done what they had been told.

Agravain had immediately departed west, ahead of his men, for Camelot on the western coast of Britain. He would petition King Arthur to put a stop to this before it went any farther – and to remind the other "Kings" that they only retained their titles so long as King Arthur allowed them to do so. At any time, he could revoke that title from them, along with all its connotations.

It seemed to Ser Agravain that perhaps the time to exorcise that power, to make an example of those who thought the one true King of Britain a fool, was nigh.

This goal in mind, he returned his attention to the journey at hand, keeping an eye on the road and a hand close to his sword.

A quiet laugh caused him to haul back on the reigns, bringing his horse to a halt.

Immediately, his hand was on his sword, his ears twitching and his eyes narrowed as he scanned the forest around him.

Another laugh echoed between the trees, carried on the breeze as the leaves rustled in the autumn air.

He tightened his grip on his blade, jaw set. He _knew_ that laugh. Why couldn't he place it?

It was then that a cloaked figure emerged from the thicket, the branches of the forest seeming to willingly part on their own accord to allow it passage. It moved with grace, not disturbing so much as a single blade of grass as it stepped onto the road. When it turned to face him, the wind blew aside its hood.

Her long hair was a platinum blonde that bordered on the white and silver of starlight; her fair skin was flawless, and her eyes, once teal, were now a pale gold that sent chills down the spine, and were only accentuated by her sharp nose and high cheekbones. Her shadow, even in the bright light of a cloudless noon, was far darker than it should have been, seeming to bear a physical weight of its own; her cloak billowed about her in the breeze, revealing a beautiful form clad in the silken clothes of nobility, red, gold and pale blue.

Her smile, however, failed to compliment her beauty; it was the first hint one received that there was something wrong with this woman. The way her eyes remained half lidded and her lip curled up in a self-assured smugness, the way her head slanted so she was constantly looking down her nose at those around her… even on horseback, Agravain felt that she was looking down upon him from on high.

Her lips pulled back just a slight bit further, parting to show her teeth, as though she were more than simply pleased to meet him again, "Hello, Agravain."

His only response was to kick his spurs into the sides of his horse as hard as he could, sending it into an immediate gallop. As quickly as she had come, she disappeared right as she was about to be trampled beneath the horse's hooves, but Agravain didn't care.

He would not go back to her.

Never.

He gripped the reigns, and urged his horse on, as fast as he could make it go.

Abruptly, he felt a body press into his back, and a pale, slender arm wrapped around his throat. Agravain found himself being thrown off his horse and into the underbrush as though he were a ragdoll, hitting the dirt hard and rolling down the slope into a small grove. His jaw and joints ached, his entire left side felt as though it had been bruised, and he knew from the warm liquid rolling down his chin that his lip had been split.

He groaned, pushing himself up to his knees, and could only barely look upwards as he heard a series of soft clops. The woman had grabbed ahold of his horse's reigns, and was still smiling down at him.

"So violent," her tone was chastising as she dismounted. Even as she tied the animal to a nearby tree to secure it, she never once blinked; it was funny how the removal of such a small movement could make a creature seem so distinctly unnatural, "Is that really how you're going to greet your owner?"

Agravain clenched his teeth as he stood, drawing his sword, "You do not own me."

"Don't I?" she seemed amused by the notion, "I beg to differ. There is so much you owe to me, Agravain… it would do you good to be a little less ungrateful."

He gripped his sword with both hands, mind racing. As badly as he wanted to press the attack, Agravain knew he was horribly outmatched; even if he managed to get in one good stroke, this wasn't a fight he would be able to win.

The woman's gaze fell to his hands; when she realized he was gripping his blade hard enough to cause the weapon to rattle, she chuckled, "You're serious about this, aren't you?... really now, what kind of assassin becomes the loyal vassal of the one they were sent to kill?"

"An assassin who puts his country above all else."

"This again?"

"I would not expect you to understand – you, who put petty revenge over all else, Morgana le Faye."

"Petty?..."

For a moment after she repeated the word, she remained silent. Slowly, the smile and mirth fell from her face, replaced with a cold glare that could cut through armour.

The next thing Agravain knew, he'd been backhanded across the face hard enough to lift him off the ground, the gust of wind that followed confirming the burst of prana that had been behind the blow, his sword falling from his hands. He landed hard on his back, the wind driven from his chest, a series of bloody lines left behind in his cheek by Morgana's nails. He could taste the blood that leaked from his gums, his teeth feeling loose from the force…

"You forget your place," her tone had hardened along with her demeanour.

"My place… is at… my King's… side," he gasped, defiant.

"Wrong," she hissed, gripping him by the cloak and hauling him up. Standing, he would have been taller than her by several inches, but she had no trouble propping him up with one hand despite the fact that he was both larger than she was and in a set of plate armour. She continued to glare into his eyes, a gaze that would completely cow a lesser Knight, "You're a dog on a leash. My leash."

Were it not for the pain, he'd have spat in her face then and there. As it was, however, the only response Agravain could offer was a weak groan as he struggled to regain his bearings through his aching skull.

"Stand up," Morgana ordered.

The only reason he obeyed was because he was too proud to remain on his knees out of spite. A Knight should stand tall before his adversaries; kneeling before the enemy did not befit his station or his responsibilities.

Once he was on his feet, the Witch spoke once more, "There are some things I want to know. You can either tell me willingly and retain your dignity, or I can force it out of you. It is your decision."

Agravain bit his tongue, forcing himself to calm; he knew that there was no fighting his way out of this. Magi may not have been known for their abilities in physical confrontations, but even if the idea that they were physically weak was not pure misconception, Morgana had clearly been planning this.

Agravain could not afford to delay his journey any longer than what was absolutely necessary; furthermore, inciting the rage of the Witch further ran the risk of not making it back to Camelot at all.

Slowly, the Knight let out a heavy breath, swallowing his pride for the sake of practicality. Perhaps there was a way to play the situation in his favour, "… very well. Ask your questions so I might be on my way."

"Mordred."

His eyes narrowed at the name; it took a moment for him to place it, but when he finally did, Agravain remained entirely unsurprised.

"My homunculus. Mordred," the Witch pressed, "What has been done with her?"

Of course that was what she wanted. Her weapon.

For a moment, he considered telling her that it had been disposed of, as it should have been that night, but he quickly quashed the thought; lying to her out of spite was hardly a wise decision. The mere prospect of losing the homunculus was enough to agitate her, and he suspected that she somehow already knew the truth anyways…

"… it has been taken in by Queen Guinevere," he stated.

Morgana's eyes narrowed at the mention of one of her most hated foes, but did not speak. Instead, she remained silent, waiting for Agravain to continue.

"The Queen seems to have become rather attached to it these past four years, despite the fact that you took her form to create it. I suspect it is because she has no children of her own."

She gave a snort of laughter at this, low and bitter.

"… you find this amusing?"

"Call it a cruel irony. The only chance Guinevere will ever have at raising a child, and it isn't even something she can claim she gave birth to."

Agravain did not gratify this with a response.

"Now then…" Morgana tilted her head, "What other happenings are within Camelot?"

Agravain remained silent.

"… trying to preserve what little pride you have as a Knight, are you?"

"The goings on of Camelot are none of your concern."

"My concerns are what I want them to be."

"Do not presume yourself some kind of Queen. The crown you wear is but a mockery."

Her eyes narrowed, a small smirk playing at her lips, "Shall I force you, then?"

"You cannot force me to do anything," Agravain stated, "If this is all you have for me, then you shall get nowhere; stand aside so I might return to Camelot."

She gave a click of her tongue, then raised her hand, idly flicking her wrist before clenching her fist, a dark aura surrounding her hand. Abruptly, Agravain's chest seized, and he collapsed to his knees, struggling for breath as tears sprung into his eyes.

"Artificially induced cardiac arrest," Morgana quipped cheerfully, her hand relaxing slightly; the pain in Agravain's chest subsided, but only slightly, just enough for him to glare up at her.

"H… how…?" he gasped.

"Oh, come now. You didn't think I would have sent you to Camelot without a way to keep you in line, did you, Agravain?" she chuckled, "For all your coldness, you certainly have something of a naïve streak."

"You…"

Whatever words might have followed were silenced by another pulse of pain, this one enough to make him choke.

"And this is only a sample of what I can do to you," Morgana continued, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, "Before you departed all those years ago, I filled your body with my magic; something of a curse, you might say. Unlike most, my prana is so thick and heavy that it can take on a physical form and be used to create simple constructs by itself, such as heavy armour... or perhaps, something more akin to a small parasite. Like black serpents under the rocks, it winds through your body, as it has for years without your awareness; right now, it coils around your heart, restricting its beat. Not enough to be deadly, but certainly enough to put you in a good deal of pain.

"But if I were to have my little constructs squeeze harder…"

The throbbing pain redoubled, and Agravain could feel his head beginning to swim. He threw his arms out to catch himself, but he still registered the feeling of his jaw slamming into the forest floor, if only barely.

Just as soon as it came, however, the pain began to subside from his chest entirely, and he took in as deep of breaths as he could manage despite the smell of earth overwhelming his nostrils.

"Oh, but that would be such a boring way to go about it," Morgana's tone was one of complaint, as though she had been mildly disappointed. She paced back and forth for a moment, giving an exaggerated 'hmmm,' and then snapped her fingers, her voice alone enough to tell Agravain of her smile, "Oh, I know…"

He pushed himself to his knees once more, glaring at her, willing her to combust, to suffocate, to keel over and die. But she did not. Instead, she stretched out her hand again, her fingers spreading wide…

His arm convulsed, then shot out to the side, his armour clanking heavily with the movement. Of its own accord – no, of Morgana's accord, his hand flexed, slowly clenching into a fist before opening again. Slowly and deliberately, the thumb reached over each finger and pulled back until the knuckle finally cracked.

He couldn't stop it, no matter how hard he strained the muscle as it began to descend. Agravain felt his fingers wrap around the pommel of his fallen sword, but the familiar weight offered him no comfort – not when the tip of the blade was being angled towards his throat. The Knight slammed his free hand into his arm, gripping the wrist as tight as he could and trying to force it down, but to no avail. He felt the cold steel rest upon his throat…

"… Hm," she flicked her wrist again – she seemed indecisive, like a child choosing between treats, but Agravain knew she was toying with him. She rested her chin on her hand, "No, forced suicide isn't quite as fun as I would like either. Besides, I'd rather not lose any of my precious tools… assassins in your particular position are hard to come by."

She played with a lock of hair again briefly… and then broke into a truly savage grin, "Oho… I know what I could do with you… say I were to take control of you in Camelot?"

At this, Agravain stiffened.

"I could make you kill someone. Someone who trusts you utterly and completely… say, Arthur? Or Guinevere, perhaps?"

"… you wouldn't."

"Don't tempt me, Agravain. We both know that I would," she knelt down, and Agravain felt his arm relax.

He knew better than to attack her again. Instead, he grit his teeth, and sheathed his sword.

"Good boy," she cooed, her smile still refusing to fade, "Now, then… how about you start telling me what I want to know, hm?"

* * *

She ran with the speed of a great hunter, weaving between the obstacles in her path effortlessly. No matter how packed or how open the halls ahead were at any point during the day, she soared through them easily, each turn, each path of the castle already committed to memory and mastered for her many escape attempts. Even the servant corridors were no stranger to her adventurous mind, so determined she was despite her youth. This was a game she never tired of playing. Never wanted to stop playing.

Again and again, it was always the same. She would run as fast as a horse, soar and weave her way through the halls with the grace of a hawk -

"Mordred! Get back here right now, young lady!"

\- and giggle like the mischievous toddler she was as she continued running as fast as she could, eager to outrun her mother's attempts to catch her. She had yet to ever truly win this self imposed game with her mother, but today felt different. With each new lap around the castle halls, the more distance there seemed to be between them. Today would definitely be the day she won. She was certain of it!

It was a sight Knights, servants and citizens alike had grown accustomed to over the last few years; soon after Mordred had first learned how to walk, she had very quickly learned how to run. And run she did, frequently and without pause. Laughing and giggling unrepentantly, a long and thick braid of golden hair bouncing against her back with every step, dressed like nobility yet still very much a child, all wild energy and freedom seeking. Nothing seemed to stop her once she started running until she was finally caught by an exhausted Guinevere, and this time it appeared the Queen would not be able to capture her rebellious daughter.

Alas, her escape was not to be.

Turning to look over a shoulder as she turned the corner, Mordred barely sidestepped a suit of armor along the corridor wall, only to scream in surprise as a metal gauntlet swung into view, wrapping itself around her torso and lifting her up into the air.

"What's this?" A deeper voice asked, "It seems that I have caught myself a runaway Princess!"

She tried to free herself, but the metal gauntlet was sturdy, more than strong enough to handle a child's struggles. There was no getting away this time and she knew it, but she still tried anyways. When it became clear she was just wasting time, she instead put on the mightiest pout to show her displeasure, shoulders slumping in defeat.

Guinevere turned around the corner soon after, face slightly red and panting. She needed a moment to recover fully, resting her hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath. Once that was done, she straightened again, brushing the loose strand of hair back into place before addressing the Knight in front of her, still holding her daughter with one arm.

"Thank you Lancelot. I'm sorry if Mordred was a bother..."

The Knight laughed, "Although she caused a bit of a commotion, I would never call Lady Mordred a bother. Though she's certainly become quite the energetic one, hasn't she?"

The "energetic one" in question said nothing in response to such prompting, instead folding her arms in a way that was equal parts rebellious and adorable, still sporting a pout that would make a statue crack a smile, not at all happy to have lost her little game due to Lancelot's interference.

"You shouldn't encourage her," Guinevere gently admonished, "She's getting too big for such antics. What if you were to drop her?"

"Too big?" Lancelot pretended to consider the point, lifting the child up to his shoulder with the same amount of effort one needed to lift a small bundle, "Lady Mordred has a long way to go before she's too big for me."

"But at the rate she's been growing, she will get there all too quickly," Guinevere reminded the Knight, "Ease my mind and promise me that?"

"As the Queen commands. You heard your mother, my Lady," Lancelot told her child, tousling her hair, "No more running off without permission."

Whatever response he expected, it wasn't the one he got. Sticking out her tongue, she blew a raspberry at him with all the defiance she could muster.

"Mordred!" The Queen tried, but could not quite hide a genuine chuckle at the behaviour.

"No fair, no fair, no fair!" Mordred cried, legs kicking out and arms flailing without warning, "Mother is supposed to catch me! It's two players only! You cheated!"

"Forgive my blunder, Lady Mordred. I was unaware of the rules," How the Knight of the Lake managed to keep a straight face was anyone's guess. He set her down, where she continued to glare at him, tiny hands clenched into fists on her hips, "I promise to be more careful next time. Until then, will you please do what your mother asks?"

The girl nodded, looking properly penitent now that a compromise was reached, but the sly gleam in her eye just before she promised to behave made it clear that she understood him: Not when they're watching, anyway. Lancelot very narrowly hid a smirk.

"Now then, shall we be off? We wouldn't want the Princess to miss her first ever Tournament now, would we?"

The carriage had been prepared the night before, comfortable enough for Guinevere and Mordred to stand or sit in without issue, as well as accommodating the whims of an easily excited and still rather mischievous toddler. Thankfully, it seemed Mordred was willing to sit and wait patiently in her mother's lap.

"Mother?"

"Yes, Mordred?"

"What will the festival be like?" the child asked.

Guinevere couldn't stop the smile that crossed her face as she gently brushed the girl's bangs aside, "A festival is typically a time for celebration. There is going to be a lot of people there, and there will be many stalls open."

"Stalls?"

"Small places at which those who do not own a store can sell things."

Mordred still didn't quite seem to understand. Her eyes were wide, her brow creased slightly as she tried to wrap her head around the words. Finally, she asked, "What does sell mean?"

The Queen faltered. "Oh dear..."

To her credit, the Queen did her best to teach her daughter the complexities of economics in a way a toddler would be able to understand. There was no question as to why Mordred was so unfamiliar with the concept. Being just four years old and a Princess, she'd had never needed to know about such things. Her explanations however only seemed to spawn more questions than understanding, until at last the long back and forth seemed to satisfy or at least ensure that most of Mordred's many questions had been spent.

For a long moment, they sat in silence.

"… Mother?" This time, Mordred's tone was one of… concern? Not quite fear or sorrow… but…

"… yes, Mordred?" Guinevere prompted.

"… where's Father?" the Princess finally asked.

Guinevere felt her heart sink at this. When she had asked Mordred what she wanted for her birthday, the girl had insisted upon one thing; she wanted to spend the day with her Father.

Arturia had been… resistant, to put it kindly. Merely mentioning Mordred seemed to elicit naught but silence from the King, reluctant to even acknowledge the girl's existence. She made every possible effort to remain as far away from the homunculus as possible – both physically and emotionally.

It took many hours of insistence, most often with silence as the only response, but Guinevere had finally managed to get Arturia to agree to Mordred's request. It was only one day, after all.

But Arturia had announced she was going ahead to oversee the finalization of the tournament that morning, and would meet them in the stands.

Even now, it seemed the King was doing everything in her power to do avoid the child for as long as possible.

Nonetheless, Guinevere kept her expression and voice warm and soft, trying to comfort her daughter, "Your Father's gone on ahead to make sure everything goes well. He wants to make sure everything is perfect today."

"… I wanted him to ride with us," Mordred said quietly.

"I know," Guinevere continued to stroke the girl's long golden locks, "But… well, your Father is a man who doesn't feel right if he isn't getting something done. He is someone who feels he has to remain busy."

This time, Mordred said nothing, merely curling up slightly in the Queen's lap.

"We'll see him very soon, Mordred," Guinevere assured, "I promise."

There was a pause before the girl gave a slow nod, and Guinevere turned her attention to the day ahead.

Today was going to be a big day of firsts. Not just for Mordred, who had rarely ventured beyond the castle's walls before today, but also for the people of Camelot itself, the majority of which having not yet seen the new Princess.

There was no question that the announcement of Mordred's "birth" had been met with great surprise and wonder in equal order. Barely a fortnight before the announcement was given, there were those who swore they had seen the Queen welcoming four of the round table Knights in the market district, as bright and glowing as the sun, seemingly immune to the elements of an early winter rapidly approaching. She certainly didn't look like she was heavy with child then. What could have happened in so short a timeline?

As the official statement went regarding the matter, it had been a deliberate subterfuge to conceal the pregnancy, both on Guinevere's part and at the Court Mage's insistence, following an attempt on the Queen's life soon after she was discovered to be pregnant several months prior. No exact details on this attempt were given - the popular assumption was a poisoned chalice or similar measures that were equally subtle and easy to overlook - but it had shaken the royal family badly enough that they thought it best to protect their child by concealing the pregnancy entirely. This had been achieved first by wearing dresses that concealed her development, then magical illusions cast by Merlin in the later months when it would normally be impossible to hide such obvious signs of pregnancy. What better way was there to hide the truth from the enemy and maintain calm through the city than by acting like nothing were amiss? An apology had also been given, knowing that such secrecy was not the honourable way to go about such things, yet the desire to protect Mordred until she was born had been too great a concern.

The statement, while enough to mollify and even please the majority, was not without its critics and naysayers. Rumours had already circulated about the supposed daughter of King Arthur, ranging from her being the offspring of the King's infidelity, to possibly a commoner's child that had been adopted in secret. The repeated attempts and failures for Arthur and Guinevere to produce an heir in the past was well known.

Some opinions of the King and Queen had soured considerably, to the point they believed the entire thing a farce that had been orchestrated to satisfy a previously non-existent vanity. Both the royal family as well as the round table Knights had been quick to put an end to such beliefs, but the rumours nevertheless lingered.

What none of them knew however was that it had actually been Guinevere herself who had come up with the plan. As if driven to fully embrace her decision and protect Mordred from harm, the Queen had been the one to make up the declaration as it was given, willing to take the brunt of the backlash herself if it ever came to that. Nothing the Knights had said in protest had shaken her decision, even when she found herself facing down a very angry Knight of the Lake.

* * *

 _"_ _Lady Guinevere, please reconsider!" Lancelot had all but ordered her, eyes wide and full of a myriad of different and conflicting emotions._

 _The others stood well clear, watching. Gawain was scowling, clearly in agreement with Lancelot. Merlin wore that look of lazy interest that meant that he was taking careful note of everything said and done, weighing it for future advantage. Agravain's face could have been carved from stone for all the emotion it showed, and Arthur, someone who always kept his emotions behind a similar mask, was even more inscrutable. Both Tristan and Gareth's expressions were grave; neither going along with this proposed course of action nor finding an alternative approach was a step to be taken lightly, and Guinevere honestly did not know what counsel either Knight might give, if asked. Bedivere's head swiveled between his Queen and his fellow Knight, trying to somehow ease the tension in the room without picking sides in a conflict where both had equal merit._

 _"_ _I know you wish to protect the child. I wish for Mordred to be safe as well... but this? The people will turn on you for a slight you never committed!"_

 _"_ _Let them hate me then. I have already made my decision, Lancelot," Guinevere knew that she was walking a fine line. Each of the Knights was willing to play along to some extent or another, knowing that no easy decision was possible in this situation. But that knowledge did not simply go away because they bid it to. The Knight of the Lake's reaction was proof of that, trying even now to convince her not to paint herself a target for the blame and ridicule that would surely follow once the shock wore off, "Right now it is important more than ever that we stand united. It's a difficult task, I understand that, but Mordred's safety is a greater priority than my pride."_

 _"_ _But you don't -" Lancelot started._

 _"_ _Yes I do, Lancelot," Guinevere cut him off, forcing herself to remain calm and reasonable in the face of Lancelot's emotional response, "Mordred was made to be a weapon that was wielded against us by Morgana, but that is hers no longer. The people however don't know that. And if possible, I would keep them from ever learning such a thing, no matter what. Would you throw that all away just to see my honour remain unstained?"_

 _"_ _This is not a matter of honour," the Knight growled, "This is about you punishing yourself for no reason. I won't allow it."_

 _What happened next was something none of the Knights were prepared to deal with. Guinevere did not lash out, did not scream or anything else of the sort. She remained nebulously calm yet unquestionably terrifying as the glare in her eyes changed into something monstrous, piercing Lancelot's core with a fury greater than any holy blade. It was the look of a large and very, very angry mother bear, all but daring any intruders to approach its cubs, knowing full well what such a suicidal venture would entail._

 _"_ _That's not your decision to make, Lancelot," she said, her gaze never wavering, voice firm and powerful. It was not the power of authority that the King used when speaking, but one born of maternal love for the child she swore to protect, and was no lesser for it._

 _Lancelot, unsurprisingly, backed down then and there, "Forgive me, My Lady... I just..."_

 _A low whistle suddenly drew everyone's attention to the Court Mage. Merlin had pushed himself to his feet with an affable smile, "I did not think our Queen was capable of a look that could fell a dragon. Though I suppose there are worse fates than being killed by such beauty."_

 _There was no hint of an answering smile on Guinevere's face, "You're not thinking very hard, then."_

* * *

 _Guinevere's doubts had, of course, set in before the day of the announcement was done, but not once did her resolve waver, nor was there anyone capable of giving her cause to rescind her own advice._

 _Not that her first steps into motherhood had been filled without a fair share of issues. Both Lancelot and Tristan had done their best to inform her on what the baby Mordred liked and disliked based upon their week of travels with the child, but there was only so much they could do to prepare one so inexperienced._

 _During those first few weeks, Guinevere had dedicated almost all of her waking moments to trying to care for the infant; even as a baby that was not even able to crawl, she was practically a bundle of restless energy. When the Queen held her, she squirmed without relent, as though trying to escape from the woman's arms, clearly not having accepted the woman as a mother._

 _But that was nothing in comparison to the wailing._

 _Mordred only seemed to calm in three situations – when she was brought outside, when Lancelot or Arturia held her (the latter of which almost never happened), or when she was simply too tired to continue crying. More than once in that first week alone, Mordred had cried herself sick, ruining several of Guinevere's dresses. Nonetheless, Guinevere was determined to bond with her._

 _The first victory came in the form of a compromise; the Queen had gotten the idea to have the bed in the guest room pushed up against the window, the fireplace ablaze behind them and the window opened to the skies above._

 _Though it wasn't perfect, the view seemed to do the trick; Mordred had calmed immensely upon having the stars in view, but even then was not quite willing to snuggle up close to Guinevere. The pair had spent several nights in the same bed, Mordred only willing to sleep after pushing away from the Queen._

 _Now, Guinevere was tired, sitting in front of the fire as the baby burbled in her lap, unusually still, but far from asleep. Small bubbles of spit formed on her lips, and she stared up at the woman holding her with wide, inquisitive eyes._

 _She didn't seem to like it when people reached for her face; even when her hair hung in her eyes, Mordred immediately began to squirm whenever Guinevere reached to brush it away. It seemed to run deeper than a simple dislike, as well. If anything, it appeared to be something more akin to a flinch, an attempt to pull away from something painful or repulsive._

 _Guinevere frowned. Just what had Morgana done to this girl?..._

 _A small squeak from Mordred startled the Queen; she looked down, and gave a slight sigh of both relief and exasperation. The baby had sneezed, covering her mouth and chin in a mix of mucus and spittle. While she didn't seem particularly bothered by it now, Guinevere knew she shouldn't allow it to dry; it would cause extreme discomfort if that happened, perhaps even a rash._

 _Taking out her handkerchief, she moved to wipe the mucus away, only for Mordred to begin to squirm again, trying to get away from the white cloth. When Guinevere persisted, the child started to whimper, on the verge of crying once more._

 _Finally, Guinevere pulled away, uncertain of what to do. She couldn't just leave it there, but she didn't want to cause Mordred any undue distress…_

 _She looked into the fire, as though hoping it might give her an answer. As she stared into the flames, a tune came unbidden to her – a tune of comfort. Giving into it, she began to gently hum…_

 _And Mordred's whimpers began to die down._

 _Guinevere stopped, her attention immediately going to the baby; once again, Mordred was giving her that inquisitive look, as though wondering what exactly the Queen was doing._

 _Guinevere pursed her lips. She'd never fancied herself as much of a singer… but she did remember Tristan saying that Mordred did seem rather fond of music._

 _"…_ _well, I suppose trying can't hurt anything," she mused._

 _And so, she took a breath, and brought the tune back to mind._

 _It was not a particularly complicated tune; it was a song of comfort, one often used to lull children to sleep. Though Guinevere had tried before, Mordred's crying had always drowned her out._

 _But now that the infant was quiet, she seemed to be entranced. And as the song wore on, her eyes slowly began to close; for a long few minutes, she struggled to remain awake, but ultimately, she fell silent, quietly sleeping in Guinevere's arms._

 _The Queen smiled, and wiped the mess away from Mordred's face._

 _Perhaps they were growing closer after all…_

* * *

After what felt like forever - though in truth had only been a half hour at most, the coach stopped the carriage, and moments later opened the door for them. Guinevere gratefully took the hand he offered her with one of her own, the other holding her daughter's, "Stay close to me, Mordred."

When Mordred's saw the festival for the first time, her eyes widened in awe, jaw dropping slightly. There were countless wooden stands as far as she could see, carrying with them a whole variety of shapes, colours and spectacles she couldn't describe swirling all around her at once. The festival itself had only just started, but it seemed that no one was about to waste any time to start enjoying the drinks, food and all manner of festivities.

But that wasn't what surprised the child most.

 _'_ _They're everywhere. So many people...'_

There were still people everywhere. Already several large groups were staring in their direction, curious of the new arrival. Various men in armour or expensive looking leathers sat about on benches in the gardens, eating freshly cooked meals in the glorious sunshine. And perhaps most surprising of all, there were children playing all over the place, screaming and laughing as they chased each other around.

For Mordred, who was leaving the safety of the castle for the first time, it was overwhelming. Never before had she seen so many people at one time; the most she'd seen had been at a feast among the Knights of Camelot, and even that had only been scarcely over thirty people. Here, there were dozens upon dozens of them. Without even realizing it, she had scurried behind her mother's larger form, trying to conceal herself, holding tight onto the dress as tight as she could.

"Mordred?"

Her mother's brown eyes met her teal ones, concerned. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it as she swallowed. Finally, she managed to find her voice, "There's so many people here..."

The smile she got in response was calming and reassuring, a gentle hand rubbing through her hair and easing her nerves even further, "It's alright Mordred. You're afraid of getting lost and separated from me, aren't you?"

Mordred swallowed again, then nodded timidly.

"I promise I'll be right beside you every step of the way. You're my daughter, my most precious treasure. Even if you were to run off, I will always find you," She then placed a thumb to her mouth, smiling as she pretended to consider something, "In fact, I know just how to keep you safe!"

The festival grounds had no shortage of merchants catering specifically to items that could be bestowed to common folk and nobility alike. One such merchant they found possessed a variety of ribbons and bows, ranging from simple in design to elaborately embroidered and beaded creations that resembled dragons and other ancient beasts of war, with price ranges to match. Mordred had dithered over her choice for several minutes before Guinevere had settled the matter by selecting a pair of identical ribbons of blue and green silk, declaring it a perfect match to her daughter's eyes. She tied one to the end of her daughter's braid, and the other around her own wrist and top of the hand.

And just like that, Mordred was back to her usual adventurous and easily excited self. The ribbon swayed and glimmered in the air with every step and movement she made, bouncing off the child's back as she ran, safe in the knowledge her mother could spot the ribbon from across Camelot if need be. They were forever connected to one another, thus there was no need to worry about being lost during the festival. Even still, she followed mother's instructions not to run too far away, wanting to enjoy it together as had been planned.

There had been no opportunities for anything resembling privacy since. The festivities had commenced and were still in full swing several hours later. Wine and spirits flowed like water, but a discreet word from Guinevere to the guardsmen escorting them had ensured that Mordred was not caught up in any of the more... outgoing elements such libations tended to create.

The effort was more than worth it. She had never seen Mordred so happy. She moved from one stand to the next, eager to see, hear and experience everything the festival had to offer, her childish enthusiasm matched only by her curiosity.

And yet, the best part of today had not come to pass yet.

It was the sound of horns that got Mordred's attention, pulling her away from the game of she and Guinevere had been playing (each of them had a been trying to solve a puzzle consisting of small silver loops that, when woven correctly, formed a ring that could fit on the finger) and, not knowing what the trumpets meant, asked her mother "What was that?"

Guinevere smiled. "That was a signal that we need to head to the arena. The Knights will be starting their tournament soon."

"What's a... tournament?"

"It will be better to see for yourself. Come on, let's go."

The arena and its tournaments always stood as one of the best events, and this year was no exception. The stands had been built to accommodate a great many guests, large and small. Close enough to the action, yet carefully designed to be far enough away so that no one need fear a wayward arrow or similar mishap. As a whole, the stands were built with equality in mind. No one need fear anyone having a better seat than their own, regardless of standing.

The only exception of course was for the royal family, who had a special booth built just for them, a pair of seats similar to the Round Table thrones reserved just for them.

But for all the arena's impeccable design and eye catching sights, none of it was enough to distract Mordred as she spotted a familiar silhouette. She immediately broke out into a run, quickly closing the distance.

Arturia, King of Britannia, was a very difficult person to catch off guard. She stood unshaken through dozens of battles, able to maintain a cool, level head even after days of constant fighting with no rest.

But there was one thing that she was not accustomed to.

"Father!"

It was a word she associated with others. With Lancelot, who had a son of his own; with the various townsfolk of Camelot, all of whom seemed to have at least three children if not more; with the various noble houses who all vied for power and prestige, the King being certain that some of them only had children so they could become Knights or be married off for the sake of alliances. Even with the farmers and villagers throughout Britain, you'd be hard pressed to find a man above twenty who had not married and had children.

She never dreamed it would be applied to her, regardless of how willing – or unwilling – she was to accept it.

The King felt her heart skip a beat as something wrapped around her legs. Had she less control, she might have kicked out on impulse with the strength one might expect from a horse.

However, she quickly forced the impulse down, a slight spark of irritation quickly replacing it.

There was only one who would be so brazen.

She looked down upon the small thing that had wrapped its arms around her. Its familiar teal eyes glinted in the sunlight, its grin broad and unassuming. It was nothing short of joyful just to be in the King's presence – just like it was that night, four years prior.

"Mordred..." The name was thick on Arturia's tongue. Hoping that an acknowledgement of the homunculus' presence would be enough to make it let go, Arturia's hand shifted to its head. Movements stiff and wooden, unaccustomed to showing affection and uncomfortable with Mordred's close contact, the King tried to gently pat that head of long, golden hair, "Welcome."

Though it was more like having her head roughly mashed back and forth, Mordred was more than happy to press her head up into Father's hand like an affection starved kitten. And yet, she still did not let go, clearly wanting to bask in the fact that her Father was tousling her hair.

Arturia felt her teeth set slightly. Why did the homunculus have to make things so difficult?

She was about to try and pry the thing off when another voice reached her ears.

"Arthur."

Guinevere's voice was serene as ever, but held a subtle edge – one that was, undoubtedly, directed at her.

Arturia looked up, meeting the eyes of her Queen. She really was a sight to behold – clad in one of her favourite red dresses, she stood just slightly taller than the King. Even in the faint autumn breeze, not a single strand of her long hair was out of place, the colour so deep and dark that it bordered on mahogany.

But this was a beauty even an expert carpenter would struggle to capture.

A shame that it was marred by the subtle touches of a gently smoldering anger.

Guinevere was smiling, likely at the fact that Mordred had managed to lock Arturia in a hug and was unwilling to let go. But the way her lips were curled, and the furrowing of her eyebrows hinted at something under the warm happiness.

Arturia suspected that she already knew the cause, but nonetheless only responded with a greeting of her own, "Guinevere."

"Mordred was disappointed this morning," The Queen stated, immediately shutting down any attempt the King could have made to redirect the conversation, "She wanted you to ride with us."

Arturia's expression did not change. She looked Guinevere squarely in the eyes, tone even as she spoke, "My apologies. There were issues that needed to be settled."

"So you say," Guinevere said.

For what it was worth, there was a genuine issue with the tourney that had needed settling, but they both knew it was hardly something the King needed to handle personally.

Thankfully, the exchange was broken before it could continue.

"Father?" Mordred tugged at the King's tunic, trying to get her attention, "What are we going to see in the tournament?"

Grateful for the change in topic, Arturia glanced out into the arena where the Knights practiced their arts, "Archery, jousting, and swordplay."

The child blinked, obviously confused, "Sword… play?" she asked, "… but swords aren't toys… Mother says so."

At this, Guinevere had to stifle a laugh, "No, no, not actually playing, Mordred. Swordplay is just the word used for the actual practice."

Mordred tilted her head, "Practice?"

The King had to keep herself from sighing, "Swordplay is the act of using a sword. Everything from drawing the sword to sheathing it is swordplay."

"… but then why is it called swordplay if it isn't playing?"

Arturia could already tell that this was going to take a while; indeed, Mordred's supply of questions seemed nigh inexhaustible. Every time Arturia tried to give her a simple answer, it just seemed to lead into another question, and more complex explanations flew right over the homunculus' head. When she ran out of questions about swordplay, she started asking questions about archery. When she ran out of questions about archery, she started asking questions about jousting. And when she ran out of questions about jousting, she had somehow come up with more questions about swordplay.

It was only when the horns blew to signal the start of the tournament that Arturia was finally able to shrug Mordred off; Guinevere called the girl to her side, and Arturia steeled herself, stepping up to the front of the raised platform.

It wasn't often that she made speeches, largely because she believed that actions spoke louder than words. But today, it was necessary.

She raised her arms, and called out, "People of Britain!"

The noise of the crowd immediately began to die down, Arturia's commanding presence capturing the attention of all.

She gave a brief pause, waiting for the world to focus on her completely before speaking, "I thank you all for attending this festival. I know that for many of you it isn't any trouble, but I also know that among you are many who have travelled across the country to be here for this event. Even in the best of times, this is no easy journey; during the autumn months when the sunlight begins to wane, it is even less so, especially with the concerns of the harvest weighing so heavily on our minds and hearts.

"But that is one of the things that this festival is intended to celebrate. A successful harvest, and another year of peace since the unification of Britain."

A murmur rippled through the crowd - a sound of respectful agreement.

"... and yet, there is another thing that this festival has been organized to mark," Arturia continued, "Four years ago today, my Queen Guinevere brought a new addition to my family into the world. Some of you may have seen her already, running about the festival grounds."

She turned to Mordred, and beckoned; the homunculus smiled, heart soaring with joy as she all but skipped to Arturia's side.

Reluctantly, the King knelt, slipping her hands under the thing's arms and hoisting it up above the railing of the stand. Arturia spoke again, trying to keep her voice clear of emotion, "I present to you... Mordred – Princess of Camelot."

The people erupted into cheers, and for another long moment, Mordred was entirely overwhelmed - not just by how many there were, but by the fact that they were cheering for _her_. She raised her small hand, giving an experimental wave, and the cheering redoubled, the people ecstatic to see their Princess for the first time.

She couldn't stop herself from smiling - before, she might have been afraid, but here, in her Father's arms, she knew there was nothing to fear. Her Father would protect her.

Eventually, it had to come to an end; Arturia lowered Mordred back down to the ground, and she promptly latched herself to the King's leg again. Once the cheering finally died down, Arturia cleared her throat once more, "Now... I am certain that our competitors grow tired of waiting. They have come a long way to test their skills, and I would not deprive them of this opportunity for any longer than necessary," She raised her arms, "Let the tournament begin!"

She turned, and returned to her chair, Mordred still clinging to her leg.

The girl looked up as the King sat down, "Father?"

"What is it now, Mordred?"

"May I sit on… your…"

Mordred wasn't sure why she stopped. But there was something in Father's gaze; a coldness in those teal eyes that quickly sapped the excitement from the girl's heart, like a glare of irritation. Mordred felt her smile fade, and she released Father's leg, "… never mind…"

She felt herself quickly being scooped up by Mother again, and sat down in the Queen's lap. Looking up at her Mother's warm smile, Mordred soon felt the warmth in her chest begin to return. She returned her attention to the arena… never once seeing the glare Guinevere had leveled at her husband.

From the moment the first of the matches started, skill and honour had dominated the entire tournament. Feats of strength dominated the wrestling fields, while precision and focus honed the archer's bows, both on foot and atop their horses. The jousting matches were a parade of charging men in armour and exploding wood on shields as they tried to knock one another from their horse. Knights and warriors all, they took on all challengers in front of them either singly or together, competing in the spectacle to the enraptured crowd by summoning the best of the best for the main events, trouncing all expectations set upon them soundly.

Mordred watched anything and everything she could, eyes wide and hardly blinking, not wanting to miss a thing. Even as she continued to ask her many questions about the events and the rules surrounding them, not once was her attention diverted from the theatrical clashing of weapons and battle. It brought a smile to Guinevere's face, to see her daughter so focused and excited.

Perhaps part of it had to do with some of the Knights of Round Table also competing, albeit not for the prizes and more to show off their skills. They fought magnificently, drawing upon all they had learned in the years of fighting during times of war and simple sparring sessions together. From Lancelot's swordsmanship to Gareth and Gaheris' unmatched teamwork in the paired fights, each had fought with an honour that earned roars of approval from the onlooking crowd, offering opponents who had dropped weapons or stumbled and fell the chance to recover before continuing. Each Knight had unfailingly displayed their allegiance to their people and to their King, bowing to the Royal Family at the start and end of each bout.

Mordred cheered for all of them equally, too young to pick favourites, watching as the Knights all moved and fought around their opponents with a fluid grace, stood strong as towers and struck with swift but controlled strikes of their swords: not the legendary weapons they were known for, but each using one of the blunted weapons that the tournament provided to all combatants.

Guinevere's smile grew even more as the one on one duels started, and before the first match had even finished found the child in her lap thrusting her arms up and down, left and right, humming the clash of steel against an imaginary foe. It took but a instant to realize she was mimicking the strikes as she watched, "Are you enjoying yourself Mordred?"

There was no mockery or malice in her tone, but Mordred had stiffened up all the same, eyes wide and arms still set mid motion. A flush of red touched her cheeks, embarrassed at being caught in the act, "Y-Yes... Sorry, Mother..."

She wanted to laugh but suppressed it, not wanting to hurt her daughter's feelings, instead running a hand through her hair. It was adorable, a part of Guinevere still unsure how she could be so carefree one moment and easily embarrassed the next.

"You don't need to apologize Mordred. It was cute."

And _there_ was her usual pout at being referred to anything resembling cute, "I am NOT cute! I was being a Knight!"

A laugh managed to escape her this time, but it was too merry to be mocking. Mordred still scowled (I'm not cute! I hate being cute!), not sharing her Mother's amusement. From where he sat, the King briefly turned his head as if confused by the display, then returned to dueling Knights, thoughts hidden from everyone.

The humour of the situation quickly faded when a guardsmen arrived unannounced a few minutes later, immediately heading to Arturia's side and speaking to him in a hushed tone. After a couple seconds, Arturia replied in an equally quiet tone, too quiet for the rest of the family to hear.

"Has something happened?" Guinevere asked. When no reply came, she pressed again. "Arthur?"

A slight nod to dismiss the guardsmen, then without looking at her, replied, "Nothing important. If you'll excuse me."

"Arthur? What are you-?"

But before she could even set Mordred down to go after him, the King had stood and, without word or reason, departed from the stands.

Guinevere, for a moment, didn't really register what had happened. It was only when the fact that Arturia had actually left clicked that frustration began to build.

"Mother?"

The Queen stopped, looking down at her daughter.

Mordred had lost all interest in the arena; she was staring forlornly where Arturia had left. Finally, she looked up at her Mother, "Where did Father go?"

"He's…" Guinevere trailed off. In all honesty, she didn't know; she wished she could give the girl a concrete answer, but…

"… Father is coming back… isn't he?"

Guinevere tried to give her a reassuring smile, "Soon, Mordred. He wouldn't just leave unless it were important."

Mordred didn't seem placated – and Guinevere could hardly blame her. She tried to redirect the girl's attention back to the arena, but each attempt felt more hollow than the last. She only paid minor attention to the Knights now, constantly looking back to see if her Father had returned… and each time she looked, she grew more miserable.

By the time the official swordplay tournament had begun nearly half an hour later, Mordred wasn't even looking up anymore. She was staring into her lap, sniffling.

"Mordred?"

The girl looked up, and Guinevere felt a pang of guilt rip through her chest. Mordred's eyes were brimming with tears, and her quivering lip made it abundantly clear that she was about to cry.

"… where's Father?" she murmured.

And Guinevere found herself unable to answer – both from the fact that she simply didn't know, and the building anger in her stomach.

There was one thing Guinevere did know, however.

Before this day was through, she and Arturia were going to have _words_.

* * *

Arturia buckled one last clasp into place, teal eyes narrowed as she tested the flexibility of her armour. As usual, she had almost her entire range of motion, even the steel fingers of her gauntlets opening and closing with an ease one would not expect of stiff plate steel.

"I must thank you for bringing my armour, Ser Bedivere," she stated.

"I live only to serve, Your Majesty."

Despite his words, Bedivere's voice seemed to lack conviction.

Arturia turned to the Knight, expression as cold as ever. However, the pangs of concern rang through her heart, prompting her to ask, "Are you alright?"

Bedivere gave a pause, brushing a strand of his grey-blonde hair out of his face. He pursed his lips for a moment, then nodded, "I am fine, Your Majesty. But I must admit there are some things that trouble me."

"And what are they?" as she spoke, the King began surveying the different blades upon the weapon racks.

"… well, to begin with… when you presented the Princess today, you only gave her a first name," Bedivere stated.

Arturia felt her jaw tighten again, if only slightly, but she kept her cool regardless, "I chose my words carefully, Ser Bedivere. I have acknowledged it as Camelot's Princess."

"But not as your heir."

Arturia glanced at him, eyes narrowed slightly, "And this concerns you?"

"Some may come to the conclusion that Mordred is a bastard," Bedivere said, "Not acknowledging her as a Pendragon could damage the reputation of the Royal Family."

"We will cross that bridge when we come to it," the King returned her attention to the blades, picking one up and testing the balance, "Even if it does do some damage, I doubt anyone will act on it. Even now, the weight of the wars ten years ago is present. The few uprisings that have risen over the years since then have all been crushed."

"Common folk and minor nobility," Bedivere reminded her, "No one with great influence has risen up. But if one of the other Kings rises up again, it could cause trouble."

"As I said, the Twelve Wars for Britain still weigh heavily on everyone, Bedivere. Even if there is an uprising, those battles will not be easily forgotten; no one will want to risk such costly endeavours again."

"… as you say," Bedivere sighed.

The King of Knights looked at him again, expression softening once more as she set the sword back on the rack, "We will handle things as they come, Bedivere. I understand your apprehensions. But it isn't as though we are not prepared."

"I know," he stated, "I simply believe this is an issue that could be more easily mitigated."

Arturia paused, then turned her attention back to the weapon rack, "I won't acknowledge _it_ as my heir, Bedivere."

"… I know."

There was a brief pause.

"… there was something else bothering you?"

"Yes," Bedivere seemed grateful for the change in topic, though his expression did shift slightly when Arturia looked at him again.

"… what is it?" she asked.

"Nothing so big as talk of war," he assured, "But… well, I was there those weeks back when you spoke with Queen Guinevere."

Arturia felt her jaw tighten again, and she looked away.

"You _did_ promise her that you would spend time with the Princess today, Your Majesty. It isn't like you to break a promise, even over something you do not enjoy."

"I _did_ spend time with the homunculus," Arturia spoke, tone cold, controlled, "I have not broken my promise."

"Not technically, I suppose," Bedivere said, "But we both know how well 'technically' has worked with the Queen before."

Arturia remained silent this time, unwilling to shift.

"… the swordplay tournament is just about to begin, Your Majesty."

Again, she remained silent. Finally, she took a sword from the rack, gave it a couple of practice swings, and started for the opening of the tent.

"You won't be using Excalibur?" Bedivere asked, eyes wide with surprise.

"Of course not," the King stated, "It wouldn't be sporting to deprive my opponents of any chance at victory."

* * *

Mordred only looked up when the horns blew again, signaling the emergence of the Knights. Tears had begun running down her cheeks, though she made no sound beyond the odd sniffle.

Guinevere could hardly keep herself still. Anger was coursing through her veins like a toxin, and it was all she could do to gently stroke Mordred's back and hair, trying to soothe her.

The girl watched forlornly as the Knights filed out one by one, assembling in a line. This was to be a battle for victory between eight great Knights (not Knights of the Round Table, but Knights nonetheless), and yet, Mordred couldn't bring herself to care. She didn't want to watch them. She wanted to be with Father.

But when the final Knight emerged into the arena, the crowd's cheering abruptly turned to stunned silence, and Mordred's eyes grew wide with shock.

"Mother! Mother!" Mordred shouted.

Guinevere, caught off by the girl's sudden squirming, quickly steadied the Princess in her lap, "What is it, Mordred?"

"Look!"

She pointed at the final Knight; beautiful armour of silver and blue on a relatively small figure, he was dwarfed by all his opponents as he moved to stand at the end of the line. Unlike the others, he wore no helmet, his golden hair on display for the world to see; his face was youthful, but his expression and teal eyes bore the wisdom of a decades old ruler.

Though his hands were on a plain sword instead of the vaunted Excalibur, it was impossible to mistake who it was.

"It's Father!"

Guinevere blinked, looking upon the Knight with shock as the crowd's silence quickly turned into a roar of shouting and applause.

"Heheh!" a voice from one of the other stands rang out, "Looks like the King wants to show off for the Princess!"

"That's one hell of a gift! Wish I could give that to my own daughter!"

Mordred felt her mouth fall open, then looked up to the Queen again, eyes shining brightly, "… is that true, Mother?"

Guinevere paused, then slowly smiled, brushing a strand of hair out of Mordred's eyes, "Yes, Mordred. It seems he wanted to keep this a surprise."

It was a lie; Guinevere knew damn well what Arturia was really doing with this. She was using any and every excuse she could to get away from Mordred, even if only briefly. The mere thought was enough to bring her anger to a boil, but she pushed it down.

She would confront this later.

For now, she had to focus on her daughter.

The change in Mordred's behaviour was astounding; before, she had been silently crying, unresponsive to any attempt to try and distract her. But now, she was practically bouncing in Guinevere's lap, wiping her tears away on her sleeve and watching with pure joy and fascination. Father was going to fight! For her!

It was impossible to pry her attention away from the fighting from the moment Ser Gawain, the effective judge of the tournament, had announced the first round. Each Knight was no doubt very well trained - each the best among the best of their respective factions no doubt - but Mordred paid them little mind. Her eyes were as wide as they possibly could be, matched only by an equally wide smile, filled with awe as she watched her Father fight.

The other competitors were staring too, though with caution instead of awe... as well as more than a little fear.

Arturia was more than just a master swordsman. Her sword was more like a whirlwind of steel in her hands than a mere blade, something that seemed as uncatchable and unstoppable as it was fearsome and destructive. Her blade did not so much weave around blades as it did simply smash them aside; even her parries were enough to leave men nearly twice her size reeling, unable to recover quickly enough to protect themselves from the blows that followed.

Even when she had to face two opponents at once in the first round of the tourney, since she was an extra competitor, she remained calm as ever. If anything, it was a rather simple matter to render their chance at teamwork moot; clearly not used to working together, the two had attacked her from the same side instead of flanking her the way Gaheris and Gareth would have, hoping their combination of a high strike from the right and low swing from the left would be enough to overwhelm the King of Britain.

In return, Arturia had taken one step backwards, angling her weapon so that the lower attack would glance off the edge of her sword and into the ground; as the King lowered her head to avoid losing it, the blade that had come from below stuck fast in the dirt.

The Knight making the higher attack was not only large even compared to Lancelot, but also clearly a man used to fighting on the battlefield against multiple opponents rather than duels; his polearm slammed into his partner with enough force to knock him off his feet entirely, their sword still stuck in the ground. He looked back in shock, clearly having not intended to bowl over his ally – and in doing so gave Arturia all the time she needed to retaliate.

She slammed the pommel of her sword into his abdomen; even with the plate armour to protect him, the King could feel her strike drive the wind from the larger Knight's lungs. He doubled over, and Arturia sidestepped, adjusting the grip on her sword, raising it overhead with both hands, and driving the flat of the blade into the back of his helmet.

He immediately collapsed like a sack of bricks, face-first in the dirt; he groaned incoherently for a moment before Arturia put the edge of her blade to his neck – claiming victory by rendering her opponent helpless.

She kept the blade like that for a moment, then removed it, allowing the Knight to rise, collect himself, and leave the field before returning her attention to the other Knight. He was also bigger than her, but not to the same ridiculous degree as the first, armour rattling as he finally pulled his sword from the ground.

Though he knew that alone he stood no chance, though he shook like a leaf at the prospect of facing the King of Britain by himself, the Knight held his ground. He tensed, and charged.

There was one thing Arturia had to give him; he was brave to willingly face the King, rather than surrender upon seeing his ally defeated.

However, this did not stop her from knocking his weapon aside as he swung, and putting the tip of her blade to his throat.

The following rounds were much the same. Arturia found that it did not take much effort to claim the title of festival champion in the tournament; none of the Knights of the Round Table had entered, and she harboured no illusions that a duel against the likes of Ser Lancelot would be so simple.

And all the while, Mordred watched, transfixed. Truly, Father was incredible. Maybe even invincible. She couldn't even keep up with most of Father's movements. Though it was lost in the crowd, she cheered, hoping that somehow Father would hear her, and know how much she loved his gift to her.

But abruptly, all went silent.

"My King, if it would please you, I would propose one final round."

Arturia blinked at the new voice, and turned; she felt a twinge of annoyance at the sudden appearance of white robes and hair, a wooden staff, and a giggling, beautiful, scantily clad young woman in the crook of an arm (Guinevere responded by immediately covering Mordred's eyes).

"Merlin."

The Court Mage gave a childish smile, even as the woman's arms wrapped around his neck, "What, you expected me to stay in my tower and study when you organize a festival like this?"

Arturia remained silent. Of course she hadn't expected him to stay inside; Merlin was a man who came and went as he pleased, not bowing even to the authority of the King. What she also hadn't expected him to do was actively interfere with any of the events.

Gawain glared at him, lips curled downwards, "What do you think you're doing, Mage?"

Merlin continued to smile, turning to face the other Knights in the arena, "Just looking to make things a bit more interesting, is all. It would seem to me that the King's fellow competitors are disappointed with the outcome of the tournament."

Indeed, each of them seemed to have had their moods soured; no one enjoyed loss, but in this case it seemed as though they were in particularly ill spirit. Their postures were either of sullenness or aggression, either unwilling to meet the King's gaze or meeting it with a smoldering anger.

"If I had to guess," Merlin continued, "I would think it was because of their last minute opponent. They didn't come in here looking to fight a Knight of the Round Table, much less the King of Britain – I think they feel just a little bit cheated."

Gawain looked as though he wanted to argue, but said nothing – even he had to admit that pitting normal warriors against the King in a tourney without any prior warning seemed akin to stacking the deck.

"So, to even things out," Merlin stated, "I propose one last bout – a grand melee between all the competitors. Last man standing wins."

For a moment, Arturia remained silent. She knew what Merlin was really suggesting – a duel that would pit her against all eight of the other competing Knights.

On one hand, this isn't how she had intended for all of this to end. She had wanted this to be quick and clean – fair duels with no complications or outside influence. But on the other hand, she could see the point Merlin was trying to make, even if it was being made explicitly to irritate her – it wasn't fair to pit young wolves against a bear, alone, and one by one. Especially with no warning beforehand.

Finally, she gave a nod, "I accept."

From the sidelines, Mordred gasped, clasping her hands over her mouth, fear leaping into her heart for the first time since the duels had started. Father was going to fight all eight of them at once!?

Merlin grinned, then looked to the Knight of the Sun, "Well, Ser Gawain. You heard him. The King wants one last bout."

"… very well," Gawain muttered, looking to the others, "Anyone who accepts these terms, step forwards. The rest of you may make your way to the stands."

The Knights remained silent, weighing their options. After a moment, the one with the poleaxe and another with twin swords stepped forwards. Following them was one with a more traditional longsword, along with a man a shield and flail, and finally a man using a lightweight footman's lance.

But not all of them stepped forth; of the eight, three of them had decided that the reward was not worth risking further humiliation. They quickly swept out of the arena, disappearing into the stands to watch.

Arturia idly hefted her bladed before taking her starting position. She was still as calm as ever, never showing any form of emotional turmoil.

Mordred, on the other hand, had her hands clasped tightly together, fear and anticipation swelling and entwining in a dark dance in her heart. Father had been incredible against one opponent at a time… but how could he handle five on one? It wasn't fair! Five on one was cheating!

Merlin, satisfied that his work was done, turned to the woman on his arm, "Now then… shall we pick up where we left off?"

She laughed in response, and with a snap of Merlin's fingers, they were gone.

Gawain snorted, then raised his hand. For an instant, all was still, until finally the Knight of the Sun brought his hand down.

"Begin!"

Again, that sword was like wind. A wind that was at once savage and refined, buffeting and precise, overwhelming and controlled.

But this time, Arturia found herself being quickly surrounded.

It was clear from the start that these Knights did not know each other, or at least did not know each other very well, but they were immediately more confident in numbers than they were alone. Their attacks came in a flurry, one after the other, and to her surprise, Arturia found herself on the back foot, being forced to defend from multiple directions rather than simply one like before; it seemed that these men had learned from their prior mistakes.

She parried a blow from the poleaxe, only for the flail to wrap around her sword and pull it aside, forcing her to dodge lest the lance meet its mark; pulsing prana through her arms, she pulled her sword out of the embrace of the flail's chains just in time to block an attack from the man with twin swords, neatly sidestepping the thrust of the second blade.

But still, she was pulling back, further and further towards the edge of the arena.

As she fought, she weighed her options. Arturia had underestimated how well they were able to work together; their teamwork was hardly seamless, but it was clear that they had all seen battle, earning their positions through merit as opposed to blood as so many nobles beyond the reach of Camelot did. They had a firm grasp of tactics, and with every passing moment they fell into a stronger and stronger rhythm, a rising tide that was growing progressively harder to push back against.

She could end this in an instant if she were to use a full prana burst, but doing so would not only break her sword, but likely also kill her opponents in the process if she wasn't careful.

At the same time, however, she did not intend to lose.

She grit her teeth slightly as she felt her back hit the wooden wall. The poleaxe arced in, gleaming brightly in the sunlight.

Mordred wanted to cover her eyes, but couldn't bring herself to do so. All she could do was watch, crying out in dismay, "Father!"

The poleaxe fell, and bit deep into the wood, the King having pulled her head just a little bit to the left.

Arturia felt a small wave of satisfaction wash over her. While she disliked strategies that involved retreat, sometimes they were necessary to achieve victory.

In this case, she needed a way to deprive one of her opponents of his weapon. Removing one warrior from a group of fighters often destroyed the synergy of the rest.

Before he could attempt to pull his axe free, and before one of the other Knights could follow up with an attack of their own, Arturia slipped out from against the wall, spinning around and swinging her blade, gently flaring prana through her arms and legs.

Her sword slammed into the giant's side, and he was thrown forwards into the wall where she had once been standing. She heard him gasp for breath, and the King spun again, catching the chain of the flail around her sword before yanking the weapon from its owner's grip. Finally, she swung the blade once more, the flat slamming once again into the poleaxe wielder's head, and he sank to the dust.

Arturia then looked to the other four, pulling the flail from her blade and tossing it away. Now that their synergy was broken, she needed to take them down before they could find a new rhythm to push her back with.

She rushed forwards, pushing past the tip of the lance as she aimed to strike down its wielder, only for the one who wielded the flail to intervene, leaping before her, his studded shield catching her sword. He pushed forwards, attempting to lock her sword into place between the shield and her own body; the one with the lance then leaped back, bringing his weapon up and over the shoulder of his ally, the tip coming dangerously close to her head. Seeing their chance, the other Knights that remained charged in from the corners of her eyes, steel flashing.

Arturia only barely managed to break her sword free from the shield, bringing her weapon up to parry the steel tip of the lance, forcing it to bounce up and over her head. She sidestepped, raised her sword, and brought it down atop the steel pike.

In turn, the full weight of the lance, as well as the force behind her own strike, was brought down top the head of the shield-wielding Knight.

He immediately crumpled under the force of the blow, but the King had no time to celebrate. She leaped back as the twin swords arced towards her like a scissor, and had to bring her blade back directly to her head to defend herself from the longsword.

Immediately, the pressure from the longsword built, and the one with the twin swords lunged forwards again, the gleaming tips arcing in.

Gritting her teeth, Arturia filled her legs with prana… and jumped.

The force was enough to leave deep imprints in the earth where she once stood; her weapon broke free from the longsword, and she rose six, seven, eight feet into the air. Unable to pull back, the twin sword Knight stumbled, his blades clashing and locking into place against the longsword, both of the warriors stunned.

And as the King descended, so too did her sword, driving all three of the enemy's weapons into the ground beneath her own.

Without missing so much as a beat, she struck; the first strike drove her pommel into the chest of the longsword Knight, and the second drove the tip of her blade into the breastplate of the twin swords. The effect upon both was instantaneous, the force knocking both of them off their feet and away from their weapons, leaving them helpless upon the ground.

Only one opponent remained.

The King of Britain returned to her ready stance, her sword raised up before her. The lance Knight was shaken, and understandably so… but admirably, he held his ground. He pulled back on his weapon, bracing it against his shoulder.

Neither moved for a long moment.

The Knight then charged, unleashing a war cry as he rushed towards the King, a last ditch effort to run the monarch down.

Arturia parried, slipping in past the weapon, and swung her blade in an upward arc.

The Knight's legs were taken out from underneath him, and he hit the ground face first.

He knew he had lost even before the tip of Arturia's sword touched the back of his neck.

Ser Gawain couldn't help but smirk as he raised his hand, "The victor is Ser Arthur Pendragon, the King of Britain!"

His declaration was nearly lost among the roar of the crowd. The people were going completely wild, the thousands of voices competing with each other lost amidst one another, leaving only noise.

Mordred couldn't believe what she had just seen. Father had just taken on five separate Knights and _won_. The sheer shock was quickly replaced with overwhelming joy and awe, and the girl found herself clapping as hard and as fast as she could. She couldn't even speak, she was so astounded; all she could do was squeal in pure delight, Guinevere being the only thing keeping her from running out to the arena to hug Father once more.

The Queen was less pleased. While the feat was certainly impressive, and Mordred was happy beyond words, it did not in any way soften the blow as to why Arturia had done this in the first place. Why?... why was it so hard for Arturia to tolerate Mordred's presence?...

The King herself took deep breaths through her nose. While this wasn't the most intense or challenging duel she'd ever had, it was certainly a surprising one. It was rare for titleless Knights to prove themselves so capable; usually Knights of this skill had long since earned monikers, made names for themselves that reached far across Britain. She made a mental note to check the roster once she got the chance, then began helping the defeated to their feet.

Once they were all standing, she turned to the stands, "Would those who participated in today's tournament return to the arena?"

Slowly, the other three Knights returned, and before the King, all eight Knights stood, beaten, but unbroken.

She raised a hand, and the arena quickly went silent. She met the eyes of each Knight, "Today, you came to compete in the festival tournament for a chance at minor coin and glory. Earlier, you were disappointed, and for that, I cannot blame you. It is one thing to be defeated. It is quite another to have victory stolen from under you entirely.

"But make no mistake. Today, you have all earned something far greater than the tournament's prize."

The Knights remained silent, but their posture was now more curious than anything else. The crowd murmured, seeming just as curious as to where the King was going with this.

"Today, you all displayed great skill and tenacity in the face of adversity. Despite the odds before you, you all fought with bravery and distinction. And for that, you have earned my recognition.

"Know this. Whatever you may think of your duels, or what you may think of their results, you have done your Lords, your King, and your country proud today."

She bowed her head slightly, "I hope to see you all again someday. And that when I do, you have improved yourselves as Knights even further."

With that, she turned, and started for the exit of the arena, knowing the day's festivities would soon be coming to an end.

Mordred watched as her Father walked away, mind still reeling. Amidst her excitement, there was only one thing that Mordred knew for certain.

She knew exactly what she wanted to be now.

She would become a Knight.

A Knight just like her Father.

* * *

Guinevere had immediately left the arena, Mordred trailing close behind as they tried to keep up with the King. Arturia had been the first one out, but she likely hadn't gone far.

Indeed, it was Mordred who saw her first; she had immediately run off, giggling like mad as Guinevere moved to keep up.

The tent Arturia had entered was deceptively small, not one would expect a Knight to have, let alone a King. As soon as Guinevere managed to get Mordred to calm down a little more, they had entered; Arturia was halfway out of her armour, but still had enough on underneath to hide her gender, dressed in a tunic of deep blue and beige trousers, each beautifully embroidered with incredibly intricate patterns. She was in the middle of removing one of her greaves in favour of boots of beautifully tanned leather.

Her eyes only showed the faintest signs of surprise before the mask was in place again.

Heedless, or perhaps, unaware of this, Mordred practically threw herself onto the King, climbing up onto the bench and wrapping her arms around as much of Arturia's shoulder as she could, "Father!"

Arturia had to stop a grimace at the giddy homunculus' hug. She raised a hand, and gently set it on its back, "Mordred."

Mordred looked up at her, wonder and adoration shining bright in her eyes. Like usual, Father didn't show much emotion on his face, but he didn't need to. To Mordred, his earlier performance said it all.

Immediately, the toddler began to babble, "That was incredible, Father! You took on five other Knights all by yourself! And you won! You won! You won!" she cheered, bouncing in place.

Arturia gave no response, merely reaching down to begin removing her other greave.

It looked as though Mordred were going to continue, but she was cut off by Guinevere's voice, "Arthur?"

The King looked up at the Queen. Her smile was both serene and greatly impressed, but if her posture was anything to go by, it seemed that Mordred's presence was the only thing keeping Guinevere from severely her husband.

"You did very well today, Arthur."

"Thank you, Guinevere."

"Mordred was rather worried about you when you chose to fight all five of those Knights at once, you know."

"But Father won!" Mordred interjected, still clinging to Arturia's shoulder.

"Yes, he did, Mordred. But it was still a very reckless thing to do," Guinevere stated.

"But he _wo-oon_!" Mordred insisted, as though that solved everything.

Arturia sighed, pulling off the steel boot, "Guinevere is right, Mordred. I should have just left things as they were."

At this, Mordred gave a pout, clearly not in agreement, but unable to argue against her parents.

"The festival will be over soon," Arturia stated, pulling on her other boot, looking back up at Guinevere, "It may be for the best to return home for the night."

"Indeed," the Queen nodded, "Shall I go on ahead?"

The King paused, giving it thought… and then nodded, "It may be for the best."

"Good," the Queen brightened, "Then you can take Mordred back once you're finished here."

At this, Arturia froze. She looked up at her wife, opening her mouth in protest-

But Guinevere had already swept out of the tent, leaving her alone with the homunculus, who was still all but clamped to her shoulder, as happy as can be.

* * *

Guinevere sighed as she made her way between the tents and stalls, back towards the carriage. In all the excitement of the day, she hadn't noticed that the sky had already turned a brilliant shade of orange, fading to a dull pink as one turned their eyes further east.

In some ways, the day had been a success. Mordred had the time of her life watching the events, in particular watching her Father fight. Guinevere had never seen her daughter so excited as when Arturia defeated those five Knights.

In other ways, however, it was a complete and abject failure. It seemed that no matter what Guinevere tried, there was nothing that could get Arturia to even try to bond with Mordred. Today all but confirmed that the King would do damn near anything to get out of the girl's presence as soon as it was acceptable.

It wasn't as though Guinevere didn't understand Arturia's apprehensions about Mordred. The girl's circumstances were extremely unfortunate, and almost entirely derived from the King's misfortunes. Words could not describe the enmity that Guinevere herself had come to feel towards Morgana over the years… but that could not be pinned on Mordred. It wasn't fair to pin the deeds of the Witch on the child.

That was something some among the Round Table still seemed to have difficulty wrapping their minds around…

She rounded a corner, and blinked, broken out of her thoughts. Looking over the small trinkets of one of the stalls was Ser Bedivere, expression somewhat pensive as he looked between two rings in his palm, one of silver, one of gold.

He stood there for a long moment, completely unaware of her presence…

When he finally did catch her gaze, he started, shocked, "Oh! Your Majesty!"

"Ser Bedivere," she responded, more on impulse than anything else.

He paused, then took a long, slow breath, "My apologies. You startled me."

"No, no, there's no need to apologize," Guinevere stated quickly, "I was just…"

She trailed off, no longer certain what she was about to say, and silence fell between them.

"… you seem troubled," Bedivere finally stated, "Is something wrong?"

"… would you walk with me for a moment?"

"Gladly."

After Bedivere purchased his ring, the two set out through the festival grounds, the activity beginning to dwindle.

"… it's Arthur."

Bedivere paused, then gave a long, slow sigh. He'd suspected this had something to do with the King.

"He's still refusing to spend any time with the Princess?"

"He is. I just left her with him; I think he intended to send her home with me."

"I see…"

There was another pause.

"… does he honestly think he can just… ignore her?" Guinevere asked.

"I doubt it, but it would not surprise me if he intends to keep their relationship as distant as possible. You know as well as I do that emotional ties have never been his strong suit."

"You can't honestly think that's good for him?"

"… it isn't my place to say," Bedivere said, his tone resigned.

Guinevere sighed, bringing her hands to her face. After a moment, she looked at him, "Is there really nothing I can do to get through to him?"

"… Your Majesty, with all due respect," Bedivere began, "You must remember what kind of position the King is in. As well as the position of Lady Mordred. Any sort of acknowledgement from him, no matter how begrudging, is a massive step. We cannot hope to force him on this subject. It would only do more harm than good to try and force them to bond before he is ready to reach out for her."

"It's been four years," the Queen said pointedly, "He's barely even spoken with her. If I didn't push him, he'd likely have Mordred sectioned off to a completely different wing of the castle from him at all times."

"I see your point. Believe me, I do," the Knight stated, "But trying to force anyone to do something they do not wish to will only make them more resistant. If you want them to bond, you will have to work with him, no matter how slowly it may go.

"I know you want him to see the child as you do… but it isn't that simple. You know that."

"… yes. I do."

Silence fell over them once more.

"… would you at least help me hold him to his promise, Ser Bedivere?"

"… I would hardly be able to call myself a Knight if I did not."

"Very well. I will need you to do two things for me. The first is help me find Ser Lancelot…"

* * *

Arturia had not said anything since Guinevere left.

She made her way through the tents and stalls with a slow, controlled pace, the homunculus clinging to her hand every step of the way. And though she loathed to admit it, she was completely and utterly lost.

It wasn't often that she wandered Camelot to begin with. Even as a girl, she was raised beyond the city, Merlin and Kay – now Ser Kay – her only companions. When she became King, she had quickly been swept into the castle, and then to battlefields for the sake of supremacy.

Even in the stalls outside of the city proper, it was easy for the King to lose her sense of direction.

It really went to show just how little time she spent outside of the castle these days.

Even as they walked, Mordred continued to bombard her with praise. There didn't seem to be any end to its excitement in sight; high on Arturia's victory, the thing simply didn't seem to know when enough was enough. With its free hand, it seemed to be trying to imitate the movements it had seen, the strikes and the blocks, all the while trying to keep close to the King.

Eventually, however, even it seemed to notice that they didn't seem to be going anywhere; to Arturia, everything looked the same, and it was difficult to pick out any landmarks outside of the castle in the distance. But even with that massive structure blocking out the sunset, the stalls formed a maze that quickly led them in circles.

"Father?" Mordred tugged at Arturia's hand again, "Where are we going?"

"We are going to meet with Guinevere," Arturia stated.

"But why do we keep going in circles?" the homunculus asked. It then pointed somewhere to Arturia's left, "We passed the horseshoe game four times."

At this, the King looked over, and internally cursed; indeed, there was the stall with the horseshoe game, its owner trying to rake in his last few customers for the festival.

"… Father?"

"What is it, Mordred?"

"… are you lost?"

At this, Arturia grit her teeth slightly; she was already admonishing herself for not knowing her Kingdom as well as she should. She didn't need to hear it from the homunculus as well.

Mordred stared up at her Father, waiting for an answer. When she received none, she instead looked around, expression thoughtful. High above, the brightly coloured banners fluttered in the wind, all bearing the same symbol.

But they were different colours as her eyes went from one banner to the next.

After a moment, she began to notice a pattern; she reached up, tugging on the King's sleeve again, "Father?"

"What?"

Mordred pointed, trying to tug her Father along with one tiny hand, "I think we should go this way."

For a moment, Arturia considered ignoring the homunculus again. She was not convinced a child would know its way around better than she did – much less a child that had never been outside of the castle before today. However, the King let out a slight breath through her nose, and let Mordred pull her along.

The homunculus did not appear to be watching where it was going – indeed, it had turned its head skywards, as though looking for something, stopping every time they came to one of the tall standards before moving in a straight line in another direction. Multiple times, Arturia had to pull it back to keep it from getting underfoot, but by and large allowed Mordred to lead her through the festival grounds.

Most astonishingly, though, it seemed to be working.

It took a couple of tries, with them doubling back repeatedly after finding dead ends, but eventually, Mordred had led the King to the entrance of the festival grounds.

Arturia hid a frown, glancing down at the homunculus, "… how did you do that?"

Mordred pointed up at the banners again, "They're different colours."

Arturia looked up, blinking; indeed, the banners were of different colours, the ones around the entrance to the grounds being a deep orange in colour. Further away were flags of blue, green and yellow, and surrounding what she recognized to be the arena were banners of purple.

Differentiation between different parts of the festival grounds… how had she missed that?

She looked down at the homunculus again, who seemed rather pleased with itself. Arturia was surprised that one so young was capable of navigating so effectively on their own… but then again…

"Ah, Arthur!"

Even without Mordred's reaction to the voice calling her name, she recognized Guinevere's voice immediately, inwardly relaxing as she came into view, the Knight of the Lake in his gleaming steel armour at her side, both smiling. If they were at all bothered by her late arrival, they gave no sign, both welcoming the homunculus as she broke away from her and went running into Guinevere's waiting arms.

"Did you enjoy your birthday, Mordred?" Guinevere asked.

An enthusiastic nod and giggle, "Mmhm! We got sidetracked. Father even showed me around the merchant stalls some more! It was so fun!"

"Really?" Her mother's expression was a mix of surprise and amusement, briefly shifting to her husband, eyebrow raised in a silent question, "That's... good to hear."

Arturia in turn had to check to make sure her own surprise didn't show. She hadn't expected Mordred to defend her honour with what technically wasn't a lie. It was twice now Mordred had caught her off guard.

"Interesting. And what exactly were the two of you looking for?" Lancelot asked, genuinely curious.

"Nothing specific," Arturia stated, "Mostly just looking at what was on offer."

"Oh, really?" Guinevere couldn't help raising her other eyebrow, clearly not buying the King's answer.

As the three adults spoke, the sound of something crashing to the ground caught Mordred's attention. She turned to look, her eyes briefly meeting that of a stall owner's-

Only to be transfixed by what lay on the grass before her.

They were faintly coated in a splash of mud from the crash, but that did not detract from their beautiful polish. They were in a wide variety of colours, from a light walnut to a dark mahogany, all bearing the beautiful patterns of the wood they were carved from.

Wooden swords poured out of a tipped barrel, an irate stall owner stomping over to gather them.

Hesitantly, Mordred approached, and crouched, wrapping her tiny hands around the hilt. It was big – far too big for her, nearly half a foot longer than she was tall. She could barely wrap her fingers around the grip, and she struggled to lift the gently tapered tip off the ground.

Finally, she managed it. The feeling of the smooth, polished wood against her skin, and the weight in her grip was incredible. She lifted it high, trying to give an experimental swing, but the weight was still too much to handle; she stumbled, nearly falling over into the mud.

It was an approaching shadow that steadied her, gripping the sword and gently pulling her back into balance. She looked up, and there was the owner, who was staring down at her with an eyebrow raised.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" Guinevere quickly approached, crouching beside her daughter, "She didn't mean to cause you any trouble!"

"Wasn't her," he said simply, still looking at the girl, "Some village brats kicked it over. The girl's fine. I must say though… isn't too often girls take an interest in swords."

Mordred continued to look at him for a moment, then looked down at the sword. It was a simple thing, designed to mimic a longsword. The guard curved upwards slightly towards the blade, and the simple lines and divots in the surface combined with the wood grain to create a wonderfully elegant pattern.

"Made that one to mimic the King's sword," the man grunted, "Put a lot of work into it. Offered it to my own son, but he'd rather skip stones by the river."

Still, the homunculus did not move, staring at the blade in her hands.

"Mordred?" Guinevere prompted, "I think he would like his sword back."

"… Mother?"

"Yes?"

Mordred looked back at the Queen, eyes longing, "Can I keep it?... please?"

Guinevere blinked, taken aback. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out; of all the things she had expected to hear, that wasn't one of them.

The man crossed his arms, staring down at the girl, "My son don't want it, so 's far as I'm concerned it's for sale. Three gold pieces."

"A fair price," Lancelot stated, crouching to examine the sword in Mordred's hands, "Especially for such expert craftsmanship."

"I don't think it's a good idea."

Arturia's mask was as close as she would allow it to a frown. She had her arms crossed, and the setting sun cast shadows across her face in a manner that sent chills down the spine.

"Oh, come now," Lancelot spoke, rising to his feet, "Surely, you're not against the Princess getting a new toy?"

"She has plenty of toys," Arturia stated, "I don't want to spoil her."

"Arthur, it's her birthday," Guinevere pressed, rising to look the King in the eye, "It isn't much. Three gold pieces is hardly Britain's treasury."

Arturia still seemed reluctant, glancing between her Queen and the Knight before her. Then she looked to Mordred; the homunculus' eyes were wide, hopeful, going back and forth between the toy in its hands and the King.

Finally, the King of Knights let out a sigh, reaching into the pouch at her waist, "Very well."

The man grunted, holding out his hand; Arturia dropped each coin into his palm, the metal clinking against itself and sending chills down her spine.

The shop owner then knelt, gently gripping the wooden blade; he produced a worn handkerchief, and ran it across the wood, the mud splatters disappearing as easily as if they had never been there in the first place.

"Toys're like tools – they should be kept clean, and well taken care of. Keep that in mind, girl. Take care of your blade, and it'll never betray you."

Mordred wasn't sure she understood what he meant by that, but she nodded regardless, "I will. Thank you, sir."

He gave a gruff nod, then turned, and returned to cleaning and packing the rest of his merchandise.

"That's settled," Arturia spoke, looking at the other two as Mordred tried to lift and play with her new wooden blade, "Now we can return home. Guinevere, where is the carriage?"

The Queen remained silent, a slightly mischievous curl entering her smile. Lancelot had covered his mouth, but there was no hiding the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

Immediately, the King knew.

"… where's Ser Bedivere?" Arturia asked, tone only slightly deadpan.

* * *

The first Knight of the Round Table gave a sigh as he directed the carriage back into Camelot proper. It had been a long time since he'd done this, and he wasn't sure he approved of the intent behind this venture…

But, orders were orders, and Guinevere seemed determined that if Arturia was allowed to play the technicality game, then so was she.

All Bedivere could do was hope that Arturia wouldn't leave him with a week's worth of paperwork to do by himself for his role in what Guinevere was going to do…

* * *

Arturia bobbed her head unconsciously, the smoldering sparks of irritation once again fanned. She could tell just from the look on the woman's face that Guinevere had sent Bedivere ahead with the carriage… and that meant they'd have to ride back.

"I suppose that means we'll be riding together," the King stated, looking at the pair of horses that stood before them.

"Correct," Lancelot nodded, climbing up onto his steed with a grace only matched by the best of riders.

"Very well," Arturia began, "Guinevere, you shall ride with-"

But the Queen was already moving. Reaching out, she grabbed hold of Lancelot's outstretched hand, and he hauled her up; she swung her leg over, and found herself neatly mounted atop the horse, pressing herself into the Knight's back.

Arturia felt her eyes widen… then resisted the urge to let them narrow, her jaw setting slightly. She should have known…

"I suppose that means you ride with the Princess," Lancelot stated, only practice hiding his tone… though of what, he was not sure. Amusement?... Disappointment?...

"… Indeed," the King muttered, turning to Mordred, who was now staring up at her and the other horse with wide eyes.

After a moment, Mordred felt her heart skip a beat as Father knelt, and slipped his hands beneath her arms, lifting her off the ground. He set her in the saddle before pulling himself up behind her, securing the girl in place.

With that, Arturia gently flicked the reigns, prompting her horse to slowly plod forwards. Her emotional mask remained firmly in place, but she made no attempt to even look at Guinevere or Lancelot as she passed.

But she didn't have to give them so much as a glance.

She didn't even have to say anything for them to know how she felt.

The silence said more than words ever could.

Lancelot prompted his own horse forth, his eyes falling. He had known the King was going to strongly disagree with this course of action, but he had hoped Arturia wouldn't react this poorly.

Guinevere craned her neck, staring past Lancelot's shoulder, eyes fixed on Arturia's back. Her arms tightened around the Knight's sides for a moment before she sighed, and the Knight of the Lake brought a hand to hers.

"… why does he keep doing this?" she asked.

"His Majesty has never been warm, not for as long as I have known him," Lancelot said.

"Ser Kay remembers a time when Arthur was warm and kind…"

"He also holds that all changed shortly after His Majesty drew Caliburn."

Guinevere's arms tightened again.

"Do not worry," Lancelot began, trying to raise the Queen's spirits, "His Majesty is still human. Eventually, you will get through to him, one way or another."

"… I hope you're right."

Further ahead, Mordred silently sat in the saddle, hands still on her wooden blade. She couldn't see Father's face, but she was happy enough just being near him; actually riding a horse with him, the beasts that seemed so huge from the ground below that seemed to be exclusive to Knights and nobility, raised her spirits incredibly high.

The Princess wasn't quite as happy as she was after Father's victory in the arena, but she was still smiling widely.

Thinking again about the battle was enough to make Mordred giddy all by itself. She wished that she could see it again, but even if she couldn't, every detail had been etched into her mind like a flame.

Without even thinking, she had begun to lift the wooden sword again. She couldn't move it around very well, especially not with Father's arms and legs constricting her range, but she began to gently swing the blade as best as she could, lifting it up and lightly swinging it down.

Arturia paid this no heed, resisting the urge to bring the horse to a trot or to a gallop. The King simply wanted to get back to the castle and away from the homunculus as soon as possible.

She only barely noticed the wooden blade moving out just a little bit too far.

Mordred wasn't even sure what had happened. One moment, she was swinging the blade. The next, she was off-balance, slipping out of the saddle. There was an instant of silence, her smile fading as she tried to process what was happening. Then fear ripped through her, the girl's eyes widening as she began to fall.

Before she could even cry out, however, Father was in motion.

It was a movement faster than even Lancelot had seen from the King.

Fast as lightning, Arturia leaned forward, arm outstretched, and caught Mordred around the waist, stopping her tumble before she could hit the ground. Then, careful not to drop the girl in her arms, the King pulled the Princess up and placed her right back in the saddle, the one arm still secured around the child's waist.

"Are you alright?"

Mordred appeared stunned, slightly off balanced by her sudden tumble, but nodded. Arturia's shoulders visibly lowered, the arm withdrawing as both hands again took the reigns. The care in her voice had faded, replaced with its previous calmness.

"Mordred, now is not the time for play fighting. Please remain still."

"Y-yes, Father... I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just make sure not to make the same mistake again."

Mordred nodded, properly admonished for her mishap. To the others, it looked like the danger was averted, no one hurt, and that was the end of it; there was nothing else to worry about. Lancelot had even felt comfortable enough to note that Mordred had still managed to hold onto her sword despite the near fall, a lighthearted jest about her impressive grip.

Guinevere, however, was questioning what she had just seen. Something she had never seen on Arturia's face before.

The widening of her eyes as she realized Mordred was falling. The silent gasp that had broken through the stoic demeanour entirely. The way her neck and shoulders had clenched with genuine terror, before snapping to catch the falling child. And how she had refused to return to her aloof and perfectly kinglike self as she settled the girl back into place, refusing to relax until absolutely certain that Mordred was unharmed.

It was so fast, and moreover, so unprecedented that Guinevere wasn't even sure it was real. The King had never looked at anyone, not even his own Queen with anything beyond a coldly controlled, emotionless stare. It often seemed as though warmth was beyond Arturia – that somehow, she had been reduced to a machine. An automaton in the trappings of a person.

And yet, in that instant, those impossible fractions of a second, there had been something else.

Raw panic – a most definitely human emotion – and a desire to protect something dear.

Was there, perhaps, a chance that Arturia did care? Was there something deep within that the King was trying to bury?...

… was there a chance that her husband may care for Mordred after all?...

"If only I knew for sure," Guinevere murmured, unheard even by Lancelot.

But for now, all she could do was wait.

Wait, and hope.

* * *

And now, a note from me, Jarl of the North.

HOLY SHIT WE'RE ALIVE GUYS.

... heh. Okay, jokes aside. First thing's first, we would like to apologize for the long wait on this chapter. Unfortunately, my (Jarl of the North's) schedule has been a real shitstorm as of late, and I'm currently in New York visiting relatives... and then I have to continue helping with renovations to a basement. In the meantime, Batomys2731 has been stuck dealing with University finals, as he has previously stated.

Yeah, not fun.

Nonetheless, we still apologize, and hope to be back on schedule within the next couple weeks.

Also, there are some things we have to address in terms of the previous chapters. The first thing is that we made a mistake as to how many Wars Arturia had to fight to take control of Britain - she needed to fight twelve, not eleven. Our original understanding was that at the time, including Arturia, there were a total of twelve Kings across Britain. This is not the case - including Arturia, there are thirteen, and Arturia needed to defeat all of them to unite Britain. This has been corrected, so please, forgive our error on the matter.

Also, we're not sure how important this will be to the story yet, but it should be noted that we have since learned that Agravain is in fact the brother to Gawain, Gaheris and Gareth, and that somehow Morgana and Arturia are their aunts. Then again, some of these family trees can get confusing anyways...

And now, onto the Review Responses!

...

 **deathuser7273** \- Thank you very much! And yeah, we wish Arturia weren't so cold to Mordred as well... but for now, we have to work with what we've got.

 **Lehw** \- Batomys2731: Heh. Resistance to baby Mordred is futile!

 **Mingyu** \- HA! You made our day when we read this one, good sir. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Holix25** \- Heh. We're glad you enjoyed it so thoroughly! Mordred being spared is already causing issues as you can see; Arturia isn't exactly excited to spend any amount of time with the homonculus, and I'm sure you've already guessed that Morgana wants Mordred back. As for splitting early, that probably would have been the result if Arturia had gone through with killing Mordred in chapter 2. Thankfully, she did not. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **ROCuevas** \- Thank you. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **lioncousin** \- Heh! We're glad you enjoyed! Mordred is a personal favourite for both of us, and after seeing some pictures on the internet of her and Arturia being happy together, we had no choice but to try our hand at this. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **adhityapratama** \- Don't worry. There will be Mordred fluff. But we can't just ignore Arturia's characterization here. She is NOT ready to accept Mordred, and won't be for a long time. The Perfect King is too strong for it to disappear in four years.

As for Ser Ector, we looked up a list of Round Table Knights when starting this story. Depending on the version, Arthur has anywhere between eleven and one hundred fifty Knights at the Round Table, including his court jester and cup bearer (seriously, that HAS to suck. All that work to become a Knight, and you're stuck entertaining people or holding the King's cup). Ultimately, we simply went with the list presented by the official Fate wiki, which has a total of thirteen Knights including Galahad, Mordred, and Arturia herself. Unfortunately, Ector was not on this list... but you may see him in the future regardless!

 **ssjgojira** \- Heh. Don't we all? Mordred is among the characters we consider to need happier endings. We hope you continue to enjoy the story!

Reishin Amara - Heh. He really is like Dumbledore in some ways, isn't he? Why can't these cryptic old men ever give it to us straight? Anyways, we hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Sinnerlust** \- We're glad you think we managed to capture Arturia correctly!

And... huh. That actually kind of makes sense. And yes, we did Kerchak Saber. We're glad you noticed that! Hope you continue to enjoy!

 **miguelgiuliano. co** \- We know... having to write Arturia so cold to Mordred is something that hurts to do. But unfortunately, them's the breaks. Arturia isn't ready to accept Mordred yet, and that's all there is to it.

And thank you! It's not often people try these... I kind of wonder why, to be honest. Maybe people are scared of getting things wrong? Anyways, we hope you continue to enjoy!

 **UnkownSoul** \- Heh. It's hard to pull scenes like that off since they aren't exactly action packed. You have to do something else with them. Here, we wrenched up everyone's emotions and just let them loose. And you just might be onto something with Lancelot...

 **Yachiru-x** \- Hate to break this to you, but unfortunately it isn't that easy... no matter how much we may wish it. That said, we hope you continue to enjoy the story!

Canadian-Magus - Indeed. The key to Mordred's salvation is Arturia's acceptance. Unfortunately... that is something not easily earned. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **kyugan** \- Heh! Nah. At this stage, Arturia basically is Kerchak. That said, said violation is a big part of why Arturia is so reluctant to accept Mordred. Right now, she can't see Mordred as a person. And... well... yeah... a bit late to get away from that hope now... Guinevere is DETERMINED to act as Mordred's mother.

Yes, Caliburn is already broken, and Arturia has Excalibur. As for Galahad... well, even in the legends, Lancelot was separated from Galahad when he was still a boy. Right now, he doesn't have too much influence over Galahad's life. That said, we hope you continue to enjoy!

 **EternityDragon2610** \- Batomys2731: I was introduced to Spartacus via the television series Spartacus - Blood and Sand. THAT was how Spartacus should have been portrayed, a man that fought for freedom of all enslaved against Rome, not a Theokoles reject that rambles on about oppressors and turns into a black blob thing.

As for Boudicca, don't get us started...

Jarl of the North: (Raging in the background) We could get past her personality, but God... they've done Celtic Servants well before. We LOVE Cù Chulainn, Diarmuid and Scathach! Why couldn't they do Boudicca right!? KILTS ARE FRIGGIN' SCOTTISH!

 **The Joining** \- Dude, you are quickly becoming one of our favourite reviewers.

To start, most people I find aren't really familiar with the fact that Arturia was so cold to begin with. Most only see what is presented to us in the modern day, and to be fair, that is mostly what we are given - we aren't really shown what Arturia was really like as a King so much as we are told what she was really like as a King. The only exception I'm aware of is Mordred's backstory, and her cold rejection of the homonculus.

Something like this is impossible to shy away from when writing during Arturia's time as King. To do so is to miss one of the biggest points of her character - someone who believes that to be King is to take on a role truly inhuman.

We're also glad you enjoyed the tension of the chapter. It was a challenge to keep everyone in character, especially with emotions running so high. This is something so impactful that it actually has Arturia reacting with active fury as opposed to remaining cold and collected as usual. If it weren't for how turbulent her emotions were, she probably would have gone through with it.

We are surprised and pleased to hear how highly you praise us. And we truly thank you for all of your feedback.

We hope you continue to enjoy the story!

coronadomontes - Thank you. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Guest** \- Indeed. Arturia's acceptance is Mordred's salvation. But as we have said, it is not so easily won. We hope you continue to enjoy!

ForteoftheBallad98 - Heh! We're glad to hear you enjoyed it, and we hope you continue to enjoy!

 **King of Fans** \- Heh. Well, this is a long review.

To begin; we don't think it was so much parental instinct that stopped Arturia as much as it was simply turbulent emotion. It's one of the few situations where Arturia is more easily swayed.

Unfortunately, other Servants outside of the Arthurian legends probably will not be making an appearance in this story, as much as we love the likes of Cù Chulainn and Scathach. We want to keep this as simple as possible, so interference from other legendary figures outside of possibly Counter Guardians probably won't be happening.

We are exceptionally glad to see you are enjoying the story so far, and hope you continue to enjoy it!

Also, don't worry about the typos. It happens to the best of us.

 **Amphidsf** \- Batomys2731: That was my doing. Both variants "Sir" and "Ser" have been used, from video games like Dragon Age to TV shows like Game of Thrones. We just used Ser hope you continue to enjoy!

 **omegazero2718** \- Heh. Not a fan of Merlin, are you? The guy IS a bit of a dick... he's the one responsible for the whole Perfect King issue Arturia has, come to think of it. And yes. Papa Lancelot is best Lancelot. We are glad you're enjoying the story, and we hope you continue to enjoy it!

 **SteelyBlur** \- Batomys2731: Yay! You got the reference! We were beginning to wonder...

 **lucky777** \- Heh. Funny that you comment about our quick schedule right as it goes to shit. Again, we are sorry about that, and hope to resume a more regular pace within a couple weeks. We admit, we need to do a bit more research on the Arthurian legends ourselves, but so far I think we've managed to pull off what we have quite well. Here's hoping I can get on with Le Mort d'Arthur soon... anyways, we hope you continue to enjoy!

 **drakonpie250** \- Thank you. We hope you continue to enjoy.

 **taovkool** \- Heh. We're glad you're enjoying the story so far! Writing this much can take a lot out of you, especially during a hectic schedule. We are sorry, so please bear with us; but that said, we're glad you have such high hopes for us! We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Augustus Ashworth** \- Trust us; we have no intention of abandoning this story. We're gonna see this one all the way through if it kills us. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Hydrocell2** \- Batomys2731: We are aware of Gareth's real gender. Considering the circumstances, we were waiting for a later moment to reveal it in story.

We're glad you're enjoying the story, and we hope you continue to enjoy!

... holy crap if this keeps up we might not be able to post individual responses to reviews anymore...

As always, this will be posted on our DeviantART accounts as well as here within the next couple days. If you can't leave any feedback here, please leave your feedback there instead. Every little bit helps; you have no idea how much we appreciate all your feedback.


	4. Schemes in the Night

Apologies for our lateness, good people of fanfiction. net! The merrymaking of Christmas and the New Year, as well as some personal issues between the both of us, caused the time to get away from us somewhat. But we are here, Jarl of the North is almost done with his course (though renovations STILL aren't finished), and we are ready to continue!

As always, Batomys2731 and I do not own TYPE-MOON or Fate or any related properties thereof. If we did, there would not be nearly as many sexualized lolis... JACK THE RIPPER.

...

* * *

Agravain arrived in Camelot late – far later than he had intended.

His breaths steamed in the cool evening air as his horse plodded along, each step the steed took slow and heavy as he was sure it felt. He was certain they both looked more than a little haggard, with him having kept the horse as close to full gallop as he could – to put as much distance between himself and the Witch as he could.

He knew it was irrational. That in the end, mere distance wouldn't matter to her.

But at this point, he was willing to take damn near any form of comfort that he could.

He didn't register the guards' look of shock as he rode past them into the castle, the vibrant pink of the sky disappearing behind the castle walls. Agravain had barely brought his horse to the stables and dismounted when footsteps reached his ears.

"Agravain!"

The Knight glanced up, and only distantly registered that it was Ser Percival approaching him. He felt the fellow Round Table member grasp his shoulders, the contact jostling him and worsening the ache in his skull.

"Agravain, what's happened to you? You look like you've lost an argument with a pack of wolves!"

He knew it was no exaggeration. Morgana had been kind, or, rather, pragmatic enough to heal the bloody marks on his cheek – it wouldn't do for Agravain of the Iron Hand, Agravain who Knew No Wounds, to return home battered and bloody. But he had still ran himself ragged as soon as he was free from her, leading to his current exhausted state.

Nonetheless, he couldn't leave things stand.

"The King…" he managed, trying to push out of Ser Percival's grip, "I must… I must speak with him…"

"The King is currently having dinner," Percival's hands remained firmly on Agravain's shoulders, the black clad Knight lacking the strength to push him off, "What happened to you?"

Again, Agravain ignored the question, continuing to try and push him away, "This can't wait… I… I must speak with him, now…"

"What is it?" Percival pressed, "What could be so important that you are willing to disregard yourself like this?"

Agravain shook his head, "I… I have to…"

Percival paused, looking the man over. Like most of the Knights of the Round, there was no love lost between him and Ser Agravain. Agravain was a cold man – a man with what was best for the realm in his heart and mind, perhaps, but a cold man nonetheless. The polar opposite to Ser Bedivere, who was loyal, but empathetic, Agravain was known as the Hard Hand for a reason – he was one of the King's most trusted advisors, practically his left hand, who most often pushed Arthur to encase his heart in iron and ignore the feelings of the people in favour of what most benefitted the country.

In short, he was a man who wanted to serve a stone-hearted tyrant. A tyrant that championed all that was good and lawful, perhaps, but a tyrant regardless.

Indeed, Percival, and most of the other Knights, for that matter, could never approve of someone like him. Though they reigned in their disdain for the sake of the Kingdom, Percival knew that Agravain was fully aware of their feelings towards him. It often seemed, however, that he did not care; he simply carried out his duty without so much as a word of complaint or a twitch of discomfort, much like the King himself.

That, perhaps, was what made Agravain so infuriating to those around him.

But it also made it all the more disconcerting to see him so openly haggard, so panicked – to demand to see the King immediately like this, with no regard for what he was doing…

"Agravain," Percival began again, redoubling his grip so that the Hard Hand could not push past him, "You have to listen to me."

"I have to… see the King-"

"You're delirious. For God's sake, Agravain, look at yourself. _Listen_ to yourself."

At this, Agravain finally gave some pause; he could barely hear his own thoughts over thundering heartbeat. The world had lost a good deal of its colour, and his deep breaths of air didn't seem to be doing anything to recover from the distinct, painful lacking that ached in his lungs.

"You've run yourself ragged," Percival stated, "Even if the King were free, you are in no condition to be delivering a report. You must be able to at least think and speak clearly, or the details will become muddled."

For a long moment, all Agravain could do was stare at the other Knight, resisting the angry, childish urge to reach up and rip out Percival's moustaches for getting in his way. But he had to admit that Percival's words rang clear; nothing good ever came from haste at the cost of rationality.

Slowly, he sighed, gritting his teeth, "… very well."

"I will not insist that you see a healer," Percival said, "But I must insist that you get a good night's sleep before you speak with the King."

"I said very well," Agravain all but spat, swiping Percival's hands from his shoulders. He then stumbled across the stables and into the castle proper without another word.

Percival stared after him, and then sighed, turning to remove the saddle from Agravain's horse; it was now bent over a trough, drinking with a vigor that bordered on desperation, as though it had not seen water in days. Even Agravain treated his steed with all the respect it deserved, something he shared with all the Knights of the Round Table; for him to just abandon the horse in the stables like this was also beyond out of character for him.

"I hope this does not bode ill…"

* * *

Agravain came to a halt, leaning against the wall as he attempted to regain his wind. He could feel his head beginning to swim, a dull haze clouding his thoughts…

Cursing his carelessness, he brought a hand to his brow, wiping away the cold sweat. He forced himself to breathe, long and deep, and his mind finally began to clear, if only slightly. Regardless, it was now enough for him to plan.

And now that he was free from prying eyes, he had a task to carry out.

He felt his hand trail to his chest, coming to rest directly over his heart. Its beat was steady as ever, having calmed since his arrival; but even now, there was a telltale throb, a faint stab of phantom pain that remained from his encounter with the Witch. A reminder that his fate was not currently in his hands – that she could kill him at any moment.

Or worse.

He shivered at the memory of his limbs moving beyond his control, then steeled himself to the task at hand, limping through the halls.

The homunculus' room was thankfully unlocked when he reached it. Entering the room, it was not all that different from what one would expect from a noble born child's room. Spacious, plenty of room to play about without causing a mess, but also organized with various toys and accessories dividing up the room into sections. The room was as tidy as could be considering a young child occupied the place, but more than once he had to maneuver around the items to ensure he didn't make too much noise by stepping on one.

He noted the newest addition in the room: a wooden sword that bore a near perfect match in appearance to Excalibur, resting against the end of bed where it could be easily grabbed and picked up the moment she woke up. He was not aware the homunculus had gained an affinity for swords. It almost made her appear genuinely human in his eyes.

Almost.

He crouched in front of the mirror, an ornate wooden frame as large as the homunculus was tall, supporting a bright mirror that, judging by the faint layer of dust along its surface, was not often used by its owner. Good. That would make this easier to hide any tampering if it didn't bother with the mirror frequently.

Briefly looking over a shoulder to ensure he still had time, Agravain reached into his belt, and pulled out what appeared to be a red-black piece of rock that had been broken down and chiseled to resemble a crude dagger in shape. He repeated the mantra Morgana had instructed to him, and he started as runes buried along its side started to glow a deep red hue, still floating in place even as he released it. Then, moving on its own, it moved towards the mirror, which seemed to ripple in response as it made contact.

The next moment, it merged into mirror itself, the ripple effect disappearing and no trace of the rock remaining. To the eye, there was no hint that any magic had been added to it.

Still, he had to be certain it worked. Which meant he had to contact her through the mirror. Again, he checked over his shoulder, knowing time was limited at best.

"… Morgana?..." he croaked, still struggling through his sore throat.

No response. Were it not for the seriousness of the situation, he would have thought himself quite the fool, talking to an inanimate object. Still, he tried again, slightly louder.

"Morgana, I have completed my task. Can you hear me?"

Again, it appeared that nothing immediate had changed. The Knight was about to curse at his folly, when the mirror suddenly rippled again. Its surface shifted, like the surface of a bowl of water, the once solid reflection appearing to have transformed into liquid. After a moment, the ripples in the mirror grew more numerous and chaotic, the reflection becoming more and more muddled by the constant motion until it was finally utterly lost in a sea of roiling quicksilver. After a moment, however, the ripples began to fade – but instead of the reflection of the homunculus' room, the inner sanctums of Morgana's lab came into view, as did the witch herself, the red hues more pronounced than normal, but otherwise a perfect replication. It seemed more like looking through a window than anything else. Her expression was a perfect balance of business focused and amused self-indulgence as their eyes met through the connection.

"Hello, Agravain." Morgana's voice had a faint echo to it, which only served to enhance the surreal effect of the magic, "I'm glad to see that your efficiency remains as impeccable as I remember. You're a hard worker."

The pale golden eyes then shifted beyond him, taking in the room Mordred that now served as Mordred's. The amusement faded from Morgana's smile, "Hmm... Not much of a room for a Princess of the realm. I was expecting something more… extravagant."

"If this is… what you would have of me…" Agravain spoke, "I will depart... I have a report… to prepare…"

Any hint of playfulness was gone as she focused on him again.

"I've already reminded you of your place once today, Agravain. Do not make me do so again. You serve me, whether you want to or not."

"My loyalty… is to Arthur."

"Deluded as always. But I suppose if that's what helps you sleep at night, I'll let you keep your little lies… so long as you do as you're told."

The Hard Hand gave no response, unwilling to give her more to bait him with.

Seeing that Agravain was not going to give her any more banter, Morgana's expression grew more serious, "See to it none discover the enchantment. I will contact you by different means later. You will continue to perform your Knightly duties, but my instructions are your top priority once given. Am I understood?"

"... understood."

"Good boy," she teased, her tone shifting, as though she were addressing a particularly dim-witted dog. She then stood, stretching slightly, "Now go get yourself cleaned up and into bed. Before Percival thinks to check that you've done as he requested."

Agravain twitched, the only sign of surprise he allowed to show at the Witch's knowledge of his encounter with his fellow Knight of the Round Table. He bit down on the urge to ask how she knew of it; he knew he would not get a straight answer.

Morgana raised a hand, and the mirror began to ripple again; like before, they grew more violent, and eventually calmed, and Agravain's reflection stared back at him.

He stood for a moment, uncertain of what to do. But finally, he departed, and made for his own room, no trace of his presence left behind.

As he prepared himself for rest, Agravain was already going over how he would detail his discoveries regarding the possible betrayal of one of the Twelve Kings, and the potential war it would bring if they didn't take action.

He wished he could tell Arthur of his encounter with the Witch, but that, unfortunately, was out of the question. He would have to handle the situation himself – and discreetly, so that Morgana would not catch wind of his treason against her. He suspected that she knew he would be planning against her… but that was a bridge he would have to cross when he came to it.

For now, the two biggest threats to the King were the potential of rebellion, and the homunculus in his care.

The former, he could leave to the King himself.

The latter would have to be eliminated, somehow, some way. Before Morgana could get it back and forge it into a weapon.

* * *

Morgana gave a slow sigh as she turned away from the ornate mirror on her wall. This had been a very interesting day for her; Agravain, with a little prodding, was finally doing as he was told again, she now had an indirect form of access to Mordred, and she had learned more about the current state of affairs in Britain at large.

Sometimes she truly regretted withdrawing from the noble courts. Back when she took an active role in the Kingdom's politics, it was easier to manipulate the pieces on the board and keep up with the game at large. Earn the affections of one Knight, and pit him against a rival lord; whisper rumours of betrayal into a King's ear and watch from afar, the spies she planted keeping her up to date with every passing event.

But she could not. How could she, after Guinevere's betrayal?

Her jaw set almost painfully at the mere thought of it. Ser Guiomar may have been one in a long line of lovers, but he had still been a source of comfort in the face of her situation - her loveless marriage to Urien, and perhaps more importantly, her service as Lady-in-Waiting to the woman who married Arturia. He was not a particularly noteworthy man by any means, but in the face of the merciless, tempestuous game that was noble politics, his kindness and solemn strength had been a surprisingly pleasant change of pace from the swaggering Knights and lords she was accustomed to. She would go so far as to say that she had been rather fond of him.

But who would discover their affair but the Queen herself?

She felt her teeth begin to grind, hands shaking as she stared into the dark pit that awaited her. She could see what was happening, the way one thought would lead to another. A downspiral that would leave her completely steeped in her own fury and misery.

She had to reign herself in. She wouldn't be able to get anything done if she allowed that to happen.

Letting out a breath that was shaken by the force of a calmly restrained fury, she turned, and reached for the bound journal that lay on the worn, stained oaken surface of her desk. A large, leather-bound tome overstuffed with pages that had been added over the course of many years, the bindings were on the verge of breaking and the spine had long ago snapped. Thick leather cords kept it together at the base, but even these were under strain, the newer, relatively unstained pages near the back standing in sharp contrast to the aged, yellowed pages at the front.

Morgana knew that it was likely time for a replacement… but ever since receiving it from Merlin during her time as his apprentice, it had taken a certain significance to her. The way the marks on the surface lined up with her hand and grip perfectly, the way the pages had a bow where her hand rested when she wrote… it was irrational, but it was something she didn't want to let go of.

She pulled the book open, reaching for her ink. However, the pages stopped upon a previous entry, and her hand stopped. Her eyes flickered across the page, and she felt herself being drawn back into the past…

* * *

 _'_ _Damn it!_

 _'_ _After all the efforts I took - the months I spent learning the layout of Camelot Castle, the hours upon hours worth of midnight oil I spent learning to mimic that whore, the countless materials I used learning to make homunculi, and the painstaking precision I used to alter Mordred's creation over the nine months leading up to her birth - it's all undone because of that half-Incubus idiot and my own lapse in judgment!_

 _'…_ _starting over will be no easy task. Not only has Mordred been taken, but so have invaluable study materials and years of notes. An already hefty setback to begin with._

 _'_ _But worse is considering the following:_

 _'_ _First. One of the most important reasons I opted to carry and give birth to Mordred rather than simply grow her is because growing a homunculus from scratch is an intensive and precise procedure that requires close attention if an automated system is not already put into place._

 _'_ _While making basic infantry is simple enough, Mordred was not a mere foot soldier. Making a specialized combat homunculus is a difficult venture; making one capable of killing dear Arturia is even more so, especially considering Excalibur and its accursed sheath._

 _'_ _Second. For the sake of maximizing Mordred's strength, I considered her parentage carefully. From a personal standpoint, I would have much preferred Lancelot; I take no shame in admitting my desire for him even now. His strength and determination are second to none; even taking into account the fact that he was raised by Nimue of all people does not detract from how impressive his abilities are, as a fully human existence._

 _'_ _However, when I learned of Arturia's arrangement with Merlin to temporarily become a hermaphrodite for the sake of producing an heir, it was an opportunity I knew I could not afford to let slip away. Not only was it a chance to create a powerful mix of bloodlines - Arturia's Draconic blood, intermingled with my own Fairy blood - but it was a chance to rob Arturia of an heir, Guinevere of a child, and both of them of their dignity. Furthermore, it would have afforded me a way to foster a hatred of Arturia in Mordred based on her parentage, giving my weapon personal incentive to kill the King and take the throne._

 _'_ _Third. Homunculi are creatures that typically expire very quickly. This is usually by design, as those who utilize them tend to treat homunculi as fodder for various purposes; despite their incredible raw magical potential, they are mass produced with little thought to specialization beyond basic "branches."_

 _'_ _It chafes me to admit it, but my expertise in making homunculi that go against this grain is… limited. Most of the pre-existing information on homunculi was made for mass producing them, not creating singular specialized operatives, which again ties into my reasoning for giving birth naturally with an altered development cycle._

 _'_ _Even in Mordred's case, however, there was only so much I could manage. My intent was to maximize her development speed at the cost of her lifespan. Had things gone according to plan, she would appear to be approximately nine years of age today, and likely would not have lived to see twenty. However, due to problems of interference between her Magic Core and Magic Circuits, I was forced to slow her development so I could remove the interference before it began causing damage. She was taken before I could truly implement any repairs._

 _'_ _But now, I suppose that is beside the point. Until I can get Mordred back, I will have to make do with a replacement._

 _'_ _I can hardly pull off the same thing twice. Mordred was a mix of years of careful calculation and planning combined with a chance that practically fell into my lap; the result was something that could never be replicated. Something truly unique that outstripped everything I have made, and anything I could feasibly make in the future without a miracle. My magnum opus._

 _'_ _Aside from that, I have no desire to go through the_ joys _of carrying and birthing a child a second time - giving birth with no assistance was a Hell in and of itself. Along with that, both of the potential parents I would utilize for such a creation will be impossible to manipulate into position - Lancelot, for now, is beyond my reach, and I sincerely doubt Arturia will be making any arrangements with Merlin for another attempt at an heir ever again._

 _'_ _But nonetheless, I need a champion, and soon. Now that Arturia knows the lengths I am willing to go to, I will need to change my plans. Opportunity will present itself, but as much as I enjoy getting my hands dirty, it's often better to use an agent._

 _'_ _If I cannot use my magnum opus, I will simply have to find a way to break from the pattern and make a specialized warrior homunculus.'_

* * *

She shut her journal, taking a breath as she resurfaced from the memories of an entry written nearly four years ago. Even now, the frustration at the repeated thwarting of her efforts burned in her stomach, adding to the dark flame in her chest that guided and consumed her.

It had taken her a full year to prepare a new ritual - delving into the works and notes of other magi, experimenting with possible branches in technique and gathering materials from the far reaches of the world. In the three years after, her study had become a constantly smouldering ember of magical activity, never blazing, but burning nonetheless as Morgana toiled.

The new vessel had been constructed where Mordred's crib had once sat, hidden behind the dark curtains; a great stone egg that was uncomfortably warm to the touch, so perfectly smooth that it couldn't possibly have been made by human hands. Held upright by thick, blackened roots that pulsed with Morgana's dark magic, it stood almost as tall as Ser Galehaut herself. If Morgana were a more proud magus, she'd doubt that he would be able to leave so much as a crack with his mighty blade.

A smile began to tug at Morgana's lips as her eyes swept over the flawless surface. When she had began, it was merely a stone bowl taken from a land far to the east - whatever purpose it was originally intended for, the Witch did not know, nor did she care. When she had finally turned the required herbs and spices, flesh and powders, and spells and potions into the brimming broth that would serve as the yolk, she introduced the final ingredient - a single egg, taken from her own womb, and enchanted with magic - and sealed it shut, the gargantuan bowl morphing into the ovate form before her now.

After a moment, she slipped her finger back between the pages, and turned her book open once more, sitting down by the table. She skipped past the entries detailing her travels and the efforts taken to procure her materials, instead moving straight to the entry marking the beginning of her homunculus' incubation.

* * *

 _'_ _It's a frustrating balance to have to keep._

 _'_ _Though giving birth without assistance is an experience I would never willingly endure again, Mordred's time in the womb made the incubation aspect of this process far easier to manage. All I needed to do was allow nature to take its course, only casting rituals during key points in my pregnancy to alter Mordred's nature._

 _'_ _As I have noted in previous entries, however, I do not have the benefit of a pre-existing process to work with in this scenario._

 _'_ _I need to manage this process on a daily basis - not just the development of the magic circuit, but the actual physical development of the homunculus as well. Though this is not a particularly intensive process at the moment, it is monotonous to cast a transparency cantrip on the stone, only to peer into the murk and see nothing, day after day for what could be months._

 _'_ _However, it must be done. Once the fetus is far enough along, I must begin infusing it with magic - enriching its Magic Circuit and strengthening its body, a long, slow process akin to a long-term brine. Further monotony, but a task that I cannot simply leave be._

 _'_ _Worse is that I cannot begin any large alterations at the moment. If I begin adding too much too soon, I risk killing the fetus outright, and ruining another three years of research, travel, and procuration. All I can do is attempt to replicate the incubation process of a normal human - add hormones here, begin a growth there… and I have to do it all manually because I decided to use a stone egg rather than an actual womb._

 _'_ _I have begun seeing a faint shadow in the murk of the yolk I created. Perhaps I am further along than I think, but for now I shall not raise my hopes at nondescript shapes._

 _'…_ _this is going to be a long, boring process…'_

* * *

Morgana began flipping through the pages again, skipping past entries where no visible changes had occurred in the egg.

She wasn't sure why she was going over these entries again, really. It certainly wasn't for any practical use, as there was nothing that could be of use at the moment. Perhaps she was simply engaging in nostalgia?...

* * *

 _'_ _There's something fascinating about watching something come into shape._

 _'_ _When I watched Merlin work at his more permanent runes for hours at a time during my apprenticeship - tapping away at stone and wood with hammer and chisel, with barely enough force to leave a mark with each strike - I couldn't understand how he could stand it. It seemed unbelievably monotonous. Tap after tap after agonizingly gentle tap…_

 _'_ _I dreaded the day when it would be my turn to physically carve runes, rather than simply etching them into a surface with magic. A physical rune with a more solid foundation, be it left in the skin with ink or carved into rock with tools, is far more likely to last than one left by tracing prana into the air or the earth for a temporary effect. I recognized this, and knew that learning the craft was ultimately to my benefit, but that did not lessen my apprehension._

 _'_ _However, when that day came, when I finally took up my master's hammer and chisel and set to work… I was quickly drawn in. When I counted the taps, it was only to ensure I did not go too deep or make my channels too wide. It was not chips or fragments that broke away from my work surface, but dust. I was completely absorbed in carving the foreign symbol into the smooth pebble on my desk, enamoured with every gentle strike, and how each one brought the rune a little bit closer to its finished shape._

 _'_ _Before I had even realized it, the sun had set and my first rune was complete._

 _'_ _In that sense, I was far too quick to judge the art of rune making._

 _'_ _Perhaps history has repeated itself with the processes of my homunculus._

 _'_ _I was correct in assuming that it would take some time for it to become visible through the murk of the yolk; for a month, I could only guess at how far along the development of my weapon had come. Day after day of nothing in the egg, monitoring resources with only a flicker of prana within to give me any indication as to whether or not there was something living within._

 _'_ _Finally, a shadow had formed in the gloom._

 _'_ _Small. Curled. All but invisible in its murky shroud. In that moment, I could not make out any details of the homunculus, only that it was small enough to fit comfortably in both of my hands._

 _'_ _That was when I took to my work in earnest._

 _'_ _Every day, it grew just a little bit bigger, a little more defined. Becoming something more than just a lump of flesh._

 _'_ _Now, over three months since I began, I can begin making out its features.'_

* * *

It was there that the writing stopped. Instead, the entry continued on the next page with a sketch.

To anyone else, it would have been grotesque, something unnatural conjured from a nightmare. It was humanoid only in the sense that it had a torso, a head, and four limbs, but that was where the similarities ended. It looked like an unfinished clay doll, like the artist had run out of material before the piece could even reach the halfway point.

Its body was thin, for starters - too thin and too long. What little flesh it had was compressed beneath the translucent skin, which gathered around the bones so tightly that Morgana could count the individual ribs, and see the outline of its pelvis, the joints in its shoulders, knees and elbows. Its countless black veins pulsed like flame, its hands and feet had not yet formed, its limbs ending in sips of flesh and skin with no discernible shape. It curled in on itself like an oversized infant, arms wrapped loosely around legs, so spindly that it seemed that even the slightest amount of undue force would cause the bones to snap.

But worst of all was its head.

Its skin was drawn tight against its skull, but it had none of the features required in a true face. Not a single orifice had formed on the hairless head, which seemed far too large for the rest of its thin form; no eyelids, no mouth, no nostrils. Just vague dips where the eyes should be, a rise where there should be a nose, a slight sink around the cheeks and where there should have been lips - proof that the developing entity was still missing teeth.

To anyone else, it would have been a monstrosity.

Morgana, however, merely found fascination in watching her creation take shape. Fascination, and a certain satisfaction as it grew.

She shut the book, turning her attention back to the egg, but not yet to the present; her mind was still enraptured with images from months prior.

As those months rolled by, the homunculus slowly took on a more distinctly human form; when the spindly limbs finally grew into hands and feet, each bone in the fingers and toes utterly visible, muscle finally began to grow.

Its form thickened, however slightly, with each passing day. Skin once plastered to bone lost its definition, becoming utterly smooth without so much as a single wrinkle. Before long, the ribs and vertebrae had completely faded from view, only natural rises and dips remained at the knees and elbows.

The skin lost its clammy grey pallor, instead growing yet more pale, pale as death through the translucent yolk. Its face took on more definition, the skin on its skull becoming less stretched. Faint wisps of crimson hair began to grow in on its form - not the vibrant gold of Mordred or Arturia, or even Morgana's pale, platinum locks, but a bloody shade of red - and beneath the newly formed lids, its eyes flitted back and forth, perhaps in tandem with some unknowable dream.

And that brought the both of them here and now.

Now, it stood taller than Morgana, perhaps even as tall as her beloved Lancelot. The muscles had grown strong and taut like woven ropes, and the bones had solidified into steel. The skin was now such a pure shade of white that it seemed almost to be made from marble, a living statue not unlike what the Greeks and Romans oh so loved to make; however, the black veins had not faded with the sickly grey tone. Along the surface, they were etched into the homunculus' skin like streaks of pitch black lightning; further evidence of Morgana's work, the creature infused with a dark magic that would make it physically nigh indomitable in all respects.

A full mane of crimson hair floated around its head, long, thick and formless. Beneath the thick locks that obscured its body, the form was clearly that of a woman's, already possessing a certain feminine grace a beauty to balance - nay, complement its musculature. Its hands clenched and unclenched, already hinting at an immense physical strength, its expressions morphing between emotionless sleep and distinct discomfort. Though there was still more than enough room for it to float in the center of the egg without bumping into the edges of its confines, it seemed to react to its surroundings now as though they were cramped.

Perhaps it sensed that the time to emerge was upon them.

It had not even occurred to her, earlier, that the same day that her homunculus' development would be completed would be the same day that she regained a foothold in Camelot Castle. It simply seemed far too serendipitous. The world had never made things easy for her before - opportunities had presented themselves, yes, but never had they been easy to take advantage of - so why should it start now?

But it seemed that in this case, even Morgana would strike upon good fortune at some point. She was about to be rewarded for her year of patience.

All that was left was the final step; breaking the vessel.

She stepped forwards, chisel and hammer in hand, and began to etch in the rune. The enchanted stone, harder than most steels, eventually began to give way beneath the tempered steel edge, dust gently falling to the floor as the sigil was engraved.

After nearly half an hour of continuous tapping, it was finally complete. The rune for "Fracture."

Removing her tools from the stone, Morgana stepped away, and began the agonizing process of watching, waiting for her efforts to bear fruit. She could not help muttering beneath her breath, "Do not disappoint me."

Moments passed in silence, before a loud hiss erupted from the stone slab. Hot steam began to spray out from a small but growing fissure, like a gout of fire from a dragon's maw breaking through solid rock. Morgana stepped off to the side as the fissure grew, allowing all liquid to drain from the slab out and onto the floor. Once the fissure was large enough, her homunculus fell out as well, a loud, wet slap echoing around the room as it crashed to the floor, momentum causing the body to roll onto its back, face up, but was otherwise prone and unmoving.

She watched it silently, waiting...

At first there was nothing, no hint of movement as the homunculus lay there, save for an odd twitch here or there, possibly muscle spasms. Then, with a sudden, jerking series of convulsions, the Homunculus' eyes snapped open, before breaking out into a series of ragged coughs, twisting onto her side and expelling yet more liquid from its lungs, kick-starting its organs to start working on their own. It's first breaths were haggard and gasping, but slowed as it regain control, limbs curling inward to gather itself.

Morgana was pleased but cautious, slowly walking around the homunculus before her, still studying, inspecting the finished product. She needed to be absolutely certain her newest weapon was ready. The moment of truth at long last...

Its head remained still, movements slow and cautious as it pushed itself into a kneeling position, but the eyes were moving about the room with great speed, gathering in its surroundings. Trying to make sense of its new world she found herself in no doubt. The eyes were golden, shimmering with power, much like her own. The pupils however were different. Pure white, seeming to absorb all other light into their centre, pulsing briefly after each blink. A side effect of her magical enhancements perhaps? It was not unwelcome, and certainly added to its inhuman nature. And its face...

Those unnatural eyes suddenly locked onto her as she deliberately stepped harder on the stone, registering the sound and her presence. The homunculus stilled, looking very much like an animal pressed into a corner.

And cornered animals were known best for their ferocity.

A massive boom, practically a thunderclap. Prana flowed through the homunculus as it half sprinted, half lunged straight for Morgana, leaving cracks the stone where it had been just moments before. Morgana didn't even have time to blink as she found herself slammed against the farthest wall of her lab, a forearm viciously compressing into her windpipe, the other arm raised in a fist ready to strike through flesh, bone and stone alike, the golden eyes burning and teeth bared with animalistic fury.

Despite the difficulty breathing, Morgana was smiling. No fear at all, only aggression in the face of an unknown danger.

Perfect.

* * *

Still alive guys!

Again, we are extremely sorry for our lateness. Unfortunately things got away from the both of us, but in particular they got away from me, Jarl of the North. Between the stress of a course that has dragged on for far too long, a play three months in the making, renovations of a new home and escaping all of it through Bloodborne and Dark Souls III, December and January have so far proved to be rather hectic in terms of my life.

But the chapter is here now, so even if it's short, we're forgiven now, right?

... right?...

... (ahem) Anyways, with any luck, we should be able to return to a regular update schedule as of February 2018. We'll do our best not to let our lives get away from us like this again.

With that being said, onto the review responses!

 **Lehw** \- Yep... this is gonna be a looong road for her.

 **Holix25** \- No matter how much we may try to escape it, we are human. Trying to take on a role inhuman is against our very natures. That is what Arturia struggles with; she tries to be perfect despite the fact that it is fundamentally impossible. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **kyugan** \- Heh. The fact that Mordred wants to be a Knight?

 **dgMax** \- Heh. We're glad you're enjoying things! Trying to make Guinevere was a slight bit difficult since she never really appears in Fate proper, but this is a woman who wants nothing less than the best for her daughter. As for Mordred, we suspect that this is a far happier childhood than what she got in canon; so with that in mind, maybe she wouldn't mind wearing a dres-PFFFTHAHAHAHAHA! (Jarl of the North: I can't even finish that sentence with a straight face...). Anyways,we hope you continue to enjoy!

 **miguelgiuliano. co** \- Heh. We're glad you're enjoying the story! Honestly, we aren't sure when Galahad is going to appear yet. In the legends proper, he doesn't actually come to Camelot until he's about fifteen years old, so that may be a while from now. We hope you continue to enjoy in the meantime though!

 **Guest** \- We're glad you're enjoying the story so far.

 **The Joining** \- Yeah, originally we were hoping to make the last part of chapter 3 part of this chapter since this one was so short, but honestly chapter 3 wound up feeling incomplete in our eyes. We hope you don't mind how short this chapter is. Anyways, we're glad you're still enjoying the story.

 **omegazero2718** \- Heh. Damn straight! RESISTANCE TO MORDRED'S CUTENESS IF FUTILE!

 **blakekeane** \- We shall have the fluffs!... eventually. But first we need to cross the long pits of cold and despair... we hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Amphidsf** \- We're glad to hear you enjoyed it, and we hope you continue to enjoy.

 **King of Fans** \- Heh. Their relationship really is adorable.

It is unfortunate, but Cù Chulainn died anywhere between two and three hundred years prior to the Arthurian legends. As for Scathach... well, she lives on the island of Skye, and I don't think Britain is on good terms with Scotland as of this particular time period.

We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **ROCuevas** \- Thank you.

 **Jack vile Ripper** \- We don't know your circumstances. But we know how hard it can be to cry sometimes. We apologize if we hurt you... but we are glad if we brought out something positive. We hope you continue to enjoy.

 **EternityDragon2610** \- Unfortunately we will have to deal with the cold for a while longer... we hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Monaxiron** \- Thank you! We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **sarude dandstorm** \- We're glad you're enjoying the story so far! Currently the story is based on Excalibur Arturia, though she does have Rhongomyniad kicking around somewhere... we hope you continue to enjoy!

 **etheral-23** \- We're glad you're enjoying the story so far! Little Mordred is indeed adorable. And yes, that was a reference to Edmond Dantes... (Jarl of the North: ... I picked up the Count of Monte Cristo a while back.)

 **Inferno427** \- ... that's arguably even worse. (Jarl of the North: I don't know about you, but if I were Dragonet, that would just be insult to injury). Anyways, we agree that there is a distinct lack of stories set during the legends and lives of the Servants themselves. But we guess them's the breaks; you make a setting like the Holy Grail War, and people will want to stick in the Holy Grail War. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **DeathUse** r - Heh. Oh, a smartass, huh? We don't appreciate smartasses... but seriously, that is kind of funny. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **archer09** \- Thank you.

 **Random Person** \- Don't worry, we're taking care of ourselves. It's why this chapter's been so damn late... anyways, we're not using any particular version. (Jarl of the North: I've been meaning to read up on Le Morte de Arthur by Thomas Malory so that we can plan this out better, but things keep getting in the way...). We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **EVA-Saiyajin** \- Indeed. As much as we sympathize with Mordred, Arturia is arguably justified in rejecting her... and that's possibly the worst part. But someday, maybe...

We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Guest** \- Heh. Maybe... we hope you continue to enjoy!

 **kojiro kakita** \- I think that depends on the version that you read... but for this story, we are not making the Orkney siblings Morgana's children. It's easier that way. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **coronadomontes** \- Thank you.

 **logron** \- The Nasuverse is rife with suffering indeed. But hey... sometimes we can net ourselves a happy ending. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Guest** \- We finally updated! Hopefully the wait wasn't too painful for you. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Anon** \- Heh! Thank you! We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **allfictions** \- There is a distinct lack of "legend fics" for Fate, isn't there? But we suppose that's the result when you make an urban fantasy like the Holy Grail War. People like pitting Servants against one another.

Even if we had known about that aspect beforehand, we think that angle is one we would have deliberately avoided. There's already going to be quite a bit of drama in the story, and we don't need that aspect complicating things. Besides, there's a lot about Morgana in canon that we are more or less ignoring - though how much that matters is up in the air. Morgana isn't the first character that Nasu has directly contradicted himself on in terms of the canon.

Galahad is something we're looking forwards to quite a bit as well, though as we said it may take a while for him to show up. We hope you continue to enjoy in the meantime though!

 **Evowizard25** \- Painting Arturia as the bad guy is a job left to bashing fics. This story is something intended to give hope to a series of tragic characters while remaining true to how they would have been at the time. Arturia is cold, and has done some dark things in her time, but writing her as an out and out villain would be discrediting to her character; she's far more complex than just a one note villain. As you said, there are a lot of things contributing to her cold behaviour at this point.

We hope they will bond as well, and we hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Guest** \- Heh. Wow, that's a lot of reviews... hope we didn't take too long!

 **Guest** \- Thank you! We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Mingyu** \- Heh. Morgana is a crafty serpent, and knows how to worm her way into peoples' deepest insecurities... we hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Neo Byakuran** \- Thank you.

 **ffure21** \- Heh. Thank you! We both found that Guinevere's role in Fate has always been rather... well, minimal despite the role she plays in the legends. Her arguably becoming one of the main characters in this story was a bit of an accident on our part, but honestly? We're glad things have turned out the way they have. She really needs a bigger role.

We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **King Draconias** \- It is strange how there's a lack of stories about Fate's Camelot, isn't there? Here's hoping we can remedy that! We're glad you've enjoyed the story so far, and hope that you continue to enjoy it!

 **Guest** \- Here's hoping. We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Shirosakurai** \- Heh. Hope we didn't take too long! We hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Guest** \- Heh. Mordred really is one of the best in Apocrypha. She's just so much fun. We're glad you don't mind some of our inaccuracies, and we hope you continue to enjoy!

 **Guest** \- As we have said, we likely would have decided against going that route even if we knew about it beforehand. Let's face it, Fate Morgana is a bit of a mess at this point... We hope you continue to enjoy!

... okay, sorry guys, but this chapter may mark the end of the review responses. There's just too many for us to keep up with at this point.

Also, we can no longer find who mentioned it, but there was someone who commented on Morgana appearing very similar to Arturia's Alter form. There is actually a reason for this; Morgana inherited a dark power, one that is carried within Britain itself. A dark power akin to Angra Mainyu; that is part of why Excalibur in its Alter form is Excalibur Morgan, because it draws its power from the dark rather than the light like it usually does.

If the source of Morgana's power is as dark as Angra Mainyu itself...

... well, it's certainly soemthing to think about.


	5. Raising Swords at Shadows

**IMPORTANT: PLEASE RE-READ CHAPTER 4 AND THE AUTHOR'S NOTE BEFORE MOVING ON TO CHAPTER 5**

Author's Note: Hello everyone. This is Batomys2731, co-author of Knight of the Heart.

First off, our most humble apologies to our readers for the half a year long wait. While life comes first, and it has been certainly busy for Jarl and myself, allow me to explain why there was such a massive delay:

First, we were doing research on the timeline where Arturian legend roughly took place. We wanted to be certain, or at least as close as possible to certain, that future events in the story were possible. While some liberties will be taken, we still wanted to give accurate locations and individuals for the story. Speaking of timeline...

Second, while we were doing the research and writing up the chapter itself, Jarl noticed something both of us had previously overlooked. You may have notice that Chapter 4 has been given an overhaul of sorts, another reason for the delay. We had completely overlooked how the timeline was set up, thus completely missed the fact it takes 4 years for Morgana to finish her homunculus. The way it was initially written, it appeared that Morgana started creating her new homunculus on Mordred's fourth birthday. If that was actually true, then events in this chapter would have occurred before one new character was even born... and yet they would still be there somehow... Whoops... This meant we had to start all over and do some serious modifications. Long story short, this was not fun, but it was necessary.

Thirdly, the final act of this chapter was an absolute nightmare for the both of us. The entire thing took at least several revisions and rewrites, because neither of us were fully satisfied with what we came up with. We only recently, finally, came up with something that both of us agreed on and finalized.

Once again, our sincerest apologies for the delay. Hopefully this extra large chapter more than makes up for the delay (it's over 50 pages long) and I hope you all continue to enjoy!

...

Batomys 2731 and I do not own TYPE-MOON or any properties thereof. If we did, Fate Grand Order would be a console arena fighter and not a game with a stupid gacha.

...

* * *

"HYAAAAAAAAAH!"

Mordred let out a squeal of pure delight as she ran through the halls, her sword raised high as she could reach without losing her balance. Though it was a light sound that would more likely cause those around her to bite back an encroaching smile or a laugh for the sake of her dignity, a mere imitation of a battle cry, it was a sound that was fierce to her own ears.

She rounded the corner, this time taking care to not swing to the left as she had before; despite the childish enthusiasm that had taken her, and the reckless abandon that it manifested in, she was not completely oblivious to her surroundings, if only because she had knocked over that very same table before, destroying the ornate pot that rested on it and no doubt killing the plants within.

Neither of her parents had taken her over their knee, though her Mother's scolding certainly had Mordred take more care to observe her surroundings when she was at play.

Again, she let out her battle cry, striking down a dark-armoured knight that only she could see before spinning to hit another. Sometimes she found herself on a battlefield against an army of evil, oftentimes with a usurper leading the charge to try and take her father's throne; other times, they even made it into the castle, and Mordred took it upon herself to drive them out one by one, slaying the dragon the usurper rode upon in a decisive victory.

Regardless of what it was she fought that day, the ending was always the same to her; Mordred imagined she would see her father smile, reaching out to pat her on the head like he did that day at the festival grounds. He would then draw Excalibur, and lay it upon her shoulders, naming her a Knight of the Round Table – the youngest one that Camelot had ever known.

Naught but a daydream, for now. Even being a child as young as she was, Mordred knew that it would not be that easy.

But… she had been told that great things often grow from dreams.

She stopped a moment, checking to make sure she had not damaged her blade, as the old blacksmith had bid her. Ever since she had gotten the wooden replica of her Father's legendary blade, Mordred had been utterly enraptured with it, and everything that it represented. To her, it was more than a new favourite toy; it was something far more precious.

It was the beginning of something more. The promise that someday, Mordred would do more than fight imaginary invaders with a wooden sword. Even when she received a true sword of steel to replace it – perhaps not Excalibur, as that was her father's sword, but surely something of equal worth – this wooden blade was something she would cherish for her entire life.

Satisfied that there were no nicks or cracks in the polished surface, Mordred returned to swinging the blade that was still bigger than she was. She thrust it back over her shoulder, and brought it out in a whirlwind, the weight of her weapon carrying her into a spin-

 _THWAK!_

-only for it to come to an abrupt halt, her swing cut short when it collided with something hard and unmoving. For a moment, her hands ached, but the only things she cared about, when she looked up in an instant of panic, was if she had broken something, or if her sword had been chipped.

She found herself staring up at a blade of actual steel, albeit one that was still within its white and silver sheath, having simply reached out to stop the girl's swing in its tracks. Its wielder had detached the sheath from his belt, as to not damage Mordred's sword in the maneuver.

She didn't need to see his face to know who it was. The simple silver crossguard, set with diamond cut rubies at the base of the sword's fuller, could only belong to one person – even without the braid of horse hair that tied the blade to his belt.

"Ser Gareth?"

The Knight gave a soft, gentle laugh, his voice light and melodic, "You strike quite well for someone so young, Lady Mordred."

Mordred quickly spun to face the Knight, staring up at him in awe. Clad in his silver steel armour, Ser Gareth looked every bit the part the knight in shining armour that the Princess wanted to be. Her eyes were wide with wonder, and she was practically bouncing on the spot, her sword resting on the floor.

"When did you get back, Ser Gareth?" she asked, "What were you doing? Were you protecting a village? Saving a Princess? Slaying a Dragon?"

With each question, Mordred only continued to grow more and more animated, her words beginning to blend into a nigh incoherent babble as the questions picked up speed and frequency.

Gareth laughed, replacing his sword at his hip, speaking up before the girl could pass out from a lack of breath, "Nothing so fanciful, my Lady. I was simply visiting my family in Orkney."

"Oh…"

Mordred couldn't help her disappointment. Much of the time, more than half of the Knights were off to various parts of the Kingdom; she wasn't certain what they were doing, but she always hoped to hear stories of Knighthood and heroism upon their return.

Unfortunately, she rarely got the opportunity to approach most of them to ask; it almost always seemed to be the wrong place at the wrong time.

"If you don't mind my asking, what exactly are you doing out here by yourself?" Gareth asked, "Don't you have lessons to attend to?"

At this, Mordred's nose wrinkled, her brow creasing in a frown. She crossed her arms as best she could with her sword still in her grasp, "Lady Trumane's lessons are boring… she never stops talking…" after a moment, her head snapped upwards, her eyes wide with fear, "Please don't make me go back! I already read the chapter like I was supposed to!"

At this, Gareth had to stifle another laugh, "Lady Trumane does tend to ramble on, doesn't she?" he brought a finger to his lips, "I swear upon my honour as a Knight that I will not tell her where you've run off to. Though you may want to be a bit quieter if you really want to hide from her – it's easier to stay hidden if you're quiet.

Mordred's eyes widened as though she had been told a revolutionary secret. Slowly, her mouth parted into a wide grin, and she gave an enthusiastic nod, "Ooh!... thank you, Ser Gareth! I'll try being quieter!"

Gareth could not help but smile at the child's fervor. Even knowing it was likely a childish promise Mordred might not remember later, the open eyes and earnest voice showed it was a promise she was not making lightly. She was so much like Gaheris when he was her age…

"You must always consider everything about your surroundings, Lady Mordred. Even in times of peace, there is always something else to study and learn about. Perception, the ability to read and understand everything around you, is crucial as a Knight."

Mordred's eyes were wide as she did her best to dedicate every word to memory... before seeming to shrink somewhat, her gaze falling to the floor as a sudden timidity took hold of her, "Do you think I could become a Knight? Like Father?"

"Hmm..." Gareth pretended to mull it over, making a show of rubbing his chin as he thought about it, "It's not often little girls wish to become Knights. What brought this on?"

"Watching Father fight in the tournament on my birthday! It was so much fun!" just the memory of it all was enough to make Mordred start to bounce in place again, a ball of energy desperately seeking release, "I want to be just like him. A Knight that never loses!"

Gareth had to resist the urge to flinch at the words. For the child to speak so openly of her admiration for her Father, while the King made so much effort to avoid her...

He quickly refocused as Mordred continued, pointing at him with her free hand, "You're a Knight. Do you think I could become one too?"

Despite himself, the Knight chuckled at the Princess' earnestness, "It's certainly possible. But would you want to?"

"Huh?"

"You're much too small to be a Knight just yet," He straightened, rising to his full height to make his point. The Princess barely came up past his knee, "And that beautiful hair is far too long. Much too easy for someone to grab and tug on it."

Swiftly kneeling once more, he reached behind her head and gave her long braid a tug. Even as gently as he could manage, he still pulled Mordred off balance, earning himself a look of pure indignation.

"There's _nothing_ wrong with my hair!" she cried. "You're just being mean!"

Another laugh from Gareth, "My apologies, Lady Mordred. I was merely teasing you," he sobered as he caught Mordred's pout, clearing his throat, "In all seriousness, My Lady, I truly believe you _could_ become a knight if you really wanted to."

"R-Really?"

"Absolutely. The only limits we have in life are the limits we place on ourselves. If being a knight is your dream, not even fate itself can stop you. You have your whole life in front of you, child. I cannot wait to see just how far you can go."

Mordred stared up at him for a long moment, her pout slowly turning into a broad smile. Then, so quickly that the Knight was actually caught off guard, she threw her arms around his neck in a grateful hug.

"Thank you. Thank you so much, Gareth."

"You're very welcome, Mordred," Gareth straightened, "Now, I must go and deliver my report to the King. Have a good afternoon, my Lady."

"You too!"

With that, Mordred turned, and started sprinting down the hall again… only to come to an abrupt stop. She turned, looking back at the Knight.

"Ser Gareth?"

"What is it?"

"Um… I'm sorry."

Gareth blinked, "Whatever for, my Lady?"

"For… for almost hitting you with my sword," her expression was slightly ashamed – though whether if it was for not realizing she had nearly hit Gareth, or if it was for the act itself, Gareth could not tell.

Nonetheless, the Knight smiled.

"Pay it no mind, Mordred. Just be more careful in the future."

Mordred gave one final nod, and then sped off once more, Gareth disappearing from view as she rounded the corner.

She continued to sprint for a long while afterwards, this time keeping the Knight's advice in mind; much as she wanted to, she refrained from shouting when she swung her sword, lest she give away herself to the doddering old woman that was undoubtedly looking for her.

Eventually, Mordred had to stop, hunching over as she gasped for breath after what seemed like hours of play. Despite the crisp air that accompanied the coming of autumn, she was gasping for breath, her dress undoubtedly stained with sweat. Something she would likely be scolded for later…

Smiling, she wiped at her forehead with her sleeve, taking a look around to gain her bearings. Despite Camelot Castle's massive size, it was not hard to find one's way around – there were enough distinctive landmarks and windows to make it easy to navigate.

However, whatever Mordred was expecting to see, it wasn't this.

The wooden door of her Father's study.

Beautiful. Ornate. Expertly carved by hand.

Ajar.

Not wide open by any means; just slightly open, a sliver of grey light from the window slipping through and into the hallway.

Mordred blinked.

Once, in a moment startlingly similar to this, her Father had found her standing before this very room; he had told her that it was his study, and that it was completely off limits to her. It was a rare command she had never once disobeyed.

It was one of the few rooms in the entire castle she had been specifically forbidden from entering, giving a mysterious aura to the wooden frame in front of her. So it came as a bit of a surprise to her now to discover that the door had been left open – almost as though it was beckoning her, inviting her to come in.

Father would be furious if he discovered she was in here. He wouldn't raise his voice, nor would his expression change. But the sense of disappointing him would be more than enough to break her heart. He was already so distant and busy all the time... the last thing she wanted was to make him take away what little time they spent together.

...but this was also her chance to find out what Father kept in his study.

She looked left, then right down the hallway, straining her eyes and ears. As far as she could tell, there was no one to be seen, and no one on the approach. No one to spot her doing something wrong. Surely she wouldn't be in trouble if no one saw her where she shouldn't be... right?

With that thought, Mordred's childlike curiosity overwhelmed her apprehension of the potential punishment. Cautiously, she pushed the door open, looking down the hallway once more before carefully entering.

After being told for so long not to enter the room, Mordred's curiosity had filled in the gaps. Perhaps the room carried with it great and powerful secrets, priceless relics from the twelve wars her father fought in, or maybe even a weapon that could conquer any monster.

She was surprised that the room beyond did not match what her imagination had come up with. Instead, it was... almost empty. Mordred knew her Father was never one for great extravagance, but even still there was almost nothing of note.

There was a pair of large bookshelves against the back wall on either side of a small, unlit hearth, and a single ornate desk in the center of the tiny room, a large chest sitting on the floor beside it. A few rolls of parchment and some maps dotted the shelves and desk, along with several candles and a quill with a small vial of ink. A map of Britain wider than Mordred was tall was mounted on the wall opposite the small window... and that was it.

There wasn't even a second chair for visitors – just the one that Father himself must sit in. If not for the lack of dust and overall organization throughout the room, Mordred would have been forgiven for thinking the room wasn't used at all.

Curious, but careful not to touch anything, Mordred placed her sword against the edge of the table and started looking over one of the maps on the desk – a smaller map of Britain. There were little flags and carved blocks of animals or other symbols on various points, including a large castle over Camelot itself, but their significance was lost to her. It didn't help that most of the writing on the map had far too many letters than she was accustomed to reading – she couldn't even hope to spell most of these words, much less remember or pronounce them.

Beside the map, there were several carved, coloured figures that seemed to resemble Knights. For a moment, all Mordred could do was wonder if they were dolls that her Father played with in his spare time.*

Still, the way everything was arranged on the map itself seemed very important. Was this how her Father oversaw all of Camelot? How he made his decisions and planned everything out? Or was it a way to help remember things a King would need to know? She couldn't tell –

 _THUNK!_

Mordred nearly jumped out of her skin at the noise, yelping in a panic, eyes darting to the still open door, thinking she had been caught.

To her relief, the noise had been her own doing. Her wooden sword has slid from its place at the desk, and had struck the large chest at the desk's side.

Immediately, she rushed back to it, picking it up to make sure it had not been damaged. After a long few seconds of careful examination, she gave it a close hug, as though in apology, before turning her attention to the chest. The impact had jostled it slightly open, exposing a faint flicker of golden light that caught her attention before she could even think about closing it.

Again, Mordred's curiosity proved stronger than her apprehensions at the possibility of being caught. Quietly, she lifted the lid of the chest...

Revealing a splendidly shining sword laying within. One she had never seen before, causing her eyes to widen with shock and awe.

It was not her father's Excalibur, but it was just as beautiful in its design. More dazzling than any silver, it was an ornate, sparkling white-silver sword adorned with splendid decorations of red and gold.

Even as she looked at it, Mordred could feel a powerful aura radiating from the steel. A symbol of royalty that did not even need to lay any claim. It simply was.

Mordred didn't know what compelled her, but before she even realized what she was doing, her small hands were reaching towards the sword's hilt, tiny fingers inches away from wrapping around the much larger hilt...

"... hope you understand that this is something we cannot delay."

Mordred froze, eyes wide. That was Agravain's voice!

"I understand, Ser Agravain–"

And _Father_ was with him!

Quickly, Mordred slammed the trunk shut, darting towards the open door, only to jerk to a stop, heart skipping a beat as she realized she was empty handed.

"My sword!"

Scrambling back, nearly tripping over herself as she grabbed the wooden blade, Mordred hurried to hide any evidence of her wrongdoing. Already she could hear father and Agravain getting closer, audibly hearing a conversation she shouldn't be privy to.

"- but I request that you calm yourself until we are in private," Father's voice again, calm and stoic as ever, "I would rather not spark undue rumors that we are going to war."

That got the child's attention, stopping her as she closed the door to her father's study. Going to war?... what was going on?

She shook herself out of it; now wasn't the time for her curiosity to take over.

She barely made it around the corner, pinning herself against the wall, as Arthur and Agravain turned the corner on the opposite side. Clamping a hand over her mouth to conceal her breathing, the other holding her wooden sword tight to her chest, Mordred tried not to make a sound, tried to make herself as scarce as possible, praying her Father would not find any sign of her presence.

* * *

Arturia pushed through the door and into the dim light of her study. She closed the door behind Agravain, and lowered the crossbar into place, before moving to close and lock the window. Satisfied, she turned to her desk, and sat down, reaching into her desk and pulled out a tinderbox.

Agravain simply watched as the King struck the flint, the tinder quickly bursting into flame. With great care, she lit the small piece of cloth, and extinguished the remaining tinder before lighting the candles on the desk.

"Now, Agravain, you may speak freely."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Ser Percival told me you nearly killed your horse returning to Camelot. That you pushed yourself to such an extreme you were ragged and barely conscious when he saw you. What exactly compelled you to act in such a reckless fashion?"

Agravain kept his face stony, despite the curse he threw at himself from within. He'd allowed his emotions to get the better of him, pushing himself to the limit to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Witch – even after she had long been left behind.

His chest ached for a brief instant, reminding him of Morgana's hold… but he gave no sign of his discomfort.

He bowed, tone grim, "My apologies, Your Majesty. I felt the report needed to be delivered with all possible speed."

The King stared at him for a long few moments, silent. Finally, he spoke, "Very well. Proceed."

The Hard Hand raised his head, taking a brief breath before speaking, "I believe one of the Kings may be guilty of treason."

The King's expression did not shift, but he did remain attentive; Agravain took the silence as permission to continue.

"There is evidence to suggest that King Hengest of Kent has been exporting large amounts of steel, weapons and armour to the mainland. For what purpose, I was not able to ascertain – King Hengest flat out denied any such exports and refused to show me any sort of records pertaining to Kent's recent exchanges."

"Then how did you obtain the information for your report?"

"I spoke with the sailors and tradesmen in the area. They were the ones that supplied me with the information."

"And their reliability?"

"I can't say for certain, but most had been sworn to secrecy on the matter – I do not admit it with pride, but coin and intimidation were both used to coerce them into cooperating," Agravain reached into a pouch at his belt, and pulled out a folded up piece of paper, "This is my attempt at putting together a ledger of everything that was traded, but I doubt it is by any means complete."

He set it on the desk, and His Majesty took it, unfolding it and looking it over with the same cold, calculated gaze he always held.

"… I remember King Hengest," he said, finally, "Originally one of Vortigern's mercenaries, wasn't he?"

Agravain gave a curt nod, "Hengest and his brother, Horsa, foreigners Vortigern recruited from across the sea. They proved themselves quite formidable, both as leaders and as warriors. Horsa died during the fighting, and as Vortigern's mental state deteriorated, Hengest turned on him, swearing himself to you in exchange for Kent, where he now rules the Saxons."

"I see," the King set the ledger down, looking upon Agravain once more, "Do you think he may be seeking revenge for his brother's death?"

"It is entirely possible. I admit, it seems odd that he would seek revenge so long after the fact, but he would not be the only one to hold a grudge for so long," the Hard Hand's mind immediately turned to the Witch, but he made no comment on her, "It's possible he's simply been waiting for you to lower your guard to slide in the knife. Alternatively, it's possible he's simply making a bid for power – men like him are rarely satisfied with being subordinate to anyone for long."

"Attempting to build an alliance with an outside party, then…"

It wasn't so much a question as it was a tentative hypothesis; Kent was not only a small holding in Britain, it was harsh one as well. The earth was rife with crags, far too many for any substantial agriculture to be set in place. Though it was the closest part of Britain to the mainland, its economy lacked a solid foundation in comparison to its neighbours, and was largely reliant on trade.

If Hengest truly was planning a betrayal… then going by the fact that the exchange was an export… the most logical explanation was that he was trying to build a rapport with an external power by acting as their supplier, in hopes that they would return the favour in the future.

Silence reigned for a long moment as the King weighed the Knight's words…

"...Whatever his reasons, it's clear he's not doing this alone." The King turned to the map atop the table, scanning over Kent's location on the southern edge of the map, "Every trade requires at least two parties, and Kent on its own is far too small to engage Camelot in a war, much less all of Britain. Did you manage to track down who the shipments were going to, or what he received in return?"

"Unfortunately not," Agravain admitted. "As I said, the sailors had been sworn to secrecy, and were not given all the details of the transaction. They were ordered to just take what they are given and head out, no questions asked. If not Hengest, then someone from his council is doing all they can to keep their dealings concealed, ensuring the common folk don't catch wind of anything undesirable."

Arthur nodded in agreement, "Keep the common folk calm, and prevent anyone from investigating too closely without coming across as the invading party."

"Indeed. All the same, I think there are only a few potential candidates that Hengest may be trading with," Agravain pulled another map to the surface, this one showing Britain in comparison to the mainland. He pointed to what was once known as Germania, "If I had to wager on who was aiding him... I would say it was someone with rather lofty ambitions. An upstart who intends to unite the Franks under one banner and establish an empire for himself."

Arthur's brow creased in thought, then smoothed as the answer came to him, "Clovis? Son of Childeric?"

Another nod, "The King of the Salian Franks, the people that originally settled the land with permission from Rome under his father's rule. Clovis was apparently made a suffect consul, but after subjugating several other tribes, he betrayed his commanders. The Franks were dangerous enough when small and divided; Rome never managed to fully subjugate them, even when Germania was under their control – though I suspect that was the result of the Scourge of God marching straight to their front door. Since Clovis' betrayal, however, Rome has steadily been losing ground. It is entirely possible he may drive them out of northern Europe completely – it would make sense to make an ally out of a rising power before they turn their gaze upon you."

"... assuming that this is correct, Hengest is predicting that Clovis will come out of his struggles with Rome victorious, and wants to make an ally out of him. To this end, he is supplying Clovis with weapons, armour and steel, and is hoping that Clovis will return the favour in the future – by aiding Hengest in a war with Camelot."

Arturia's fingers bridged as she leaned against the table, eyes slightly narrowed. Left unchecked, this could very well lead to another war for control of Britain – a war she did not want to fight after all the lives that had sacrificed themselves for her claim to the throne.

She let out a breath through her nose, forcing herself to calm down. Now was not the time to be jumping to conclusions. This was a delicate situation that required care and caution. Politics were just as difficult and messy a business as war itself, and the two often found themselves entwined. She never cared for the games of nobility and royalty, but Arturia knew that she had to be able to play them, both to protect herself and to protect her people. Merlin had taken care to teach her the game when she was a squire, and continued to teach her through her early years as a King. She knew that all it took was a single mistake, and allies could very quickly become enemies.

Why couldn't these things be settled honourably, with a simple one on one duel between rulers or their champions?

"We will discuss this further at the next Round Table meeting," Arthur finally declared, "The other Knights will need to be informed, and perhaps their insight will help us find solutions we have not yet thought of – and ways to ensure that we are not simply jumping at shadows that are not there."

Agravain dipped his head in a small bow, "As you wish, my King, though again I strongly recommend we take action sooner rather than later."

"I will take that into consideration," Arthur stood, adjusting his cloak, "But we don't know enough yet to take any real action – we need proof stronger than the word of a few bribed tradesmen to investigate a King for treason. Besides – I need to know that it's indeed a knife that Hengest is brandishing before I raise my blade. When you raise your sword against every flickering shadow…"

"… very well."

Another moment of silence. In that moment, Agravain felt the urge to tell him of his encounter with Morgana – to tell the King what he had been forced to tell her, to be wary of what she might be planning…

But as soon as the thought entered his mind a ripple of pain shot through his chest. It was enough to make him flinch, his hand jerking up just enough to be noticeable as his face slightly contorted.

Gone as soon as it had come, but the warning behind it was clear.

Before Agravain could reassert his stone façade, Arthur had given him one last look. Then his head tilted, slightly, as though quizzical – he seemed to be appraising the Hard Hand, "… is there something wrong, Agravain?"

It took all of Agravain's willpower not to stiffen, and he swore he heard a dark chuckle in the back of his mind.

Biting back the urge to curse, he forced his grimace back down, "I am fine, Your Majesty. Just… leftover pains from my ride. It shall not interfere with my duties."

Arthur's look remained studious as he looked the Hard Hand up and down, his gaze cold. After a moment, he spoke, "Return to your quarters and rest, Ser Agravain."

"Your Majesty?"

"I appreciate the efforts you make for me and this Kingdom, Ser Agravain. But I will not have you work yourself to exhaustion. You still need to recover."

"But, Your Majesty-"

"I am not making a request."

An order, then.

Agravain paused, and then slowly lowered his head in submission, "… very well, Your Majesty. I shall return to my quarters."

Arthur nodded, and then stopped, something occurring to him. He stepped around his desk, and opened the chest, revealing the sword within, "On your way, could you please return Clarent to the vaults?"

"Clarent?" Agravain couldn't stop a blink, "The Radiant Silver Sword?"

Arthur nodded, pulling the blade forth.

"… why did you have it out of the vault in the first place, if I might ask?"

"You know that I require an heir, Agravain. I had thought that perhaps holding Clarent in my hands would help me in my decision once the day to choose arrives," he paused, running his hand along the gleaming silver edge.

"… Your Majesty?"

"… I suppose I was also a touch nostalgic. Excalibur is a powerful blade, but I cannot deny that a part of me yet longs for Caliburn. Clarent has a similar feel, but… it isn't the same."

"I see," Agravain stated as the sword was placed into his hands. It seemed that even the incarnation of a Dragon still held a favour for his first weapon, even if it had long since been broken.

But this was something Agravain took no umbrage with; there were some weapons that simply felt right in one's hands, quality or power notwithstanding. That was not merely human nature; it was true for all beings that fought with weapons.

He looked the King in the eye, and nodded, "I will return it to the vault as you have requested, Your Majesty."

"… thank you, Ser Agravain."

With another bow, Agravain turned and departed, the door closing behind him a moment after his footsteps faded down the hall.

Arturia stood for a moment longer before sinking into her chair, a tired sigh escaping her. A rare moment alone with her thoughts, where her moment of weakness, brief as it was, would go unnoticed and unknown. It was something she could not allow anyone to see, lest everything she worked for be for naught. The people needed a strong King.

She sat like that for a long few minutes before turning to the window. She pulled the latch, and opened it again, allowing the sunlight that filtered from the grey sky above to fill the room, along with the chill of autumn's breeze.

This would certainly be problematic; though she did not approve of Agravain running himself so ragged, she was relieved she had obtained this warning now, rather than when it might have been far too late. On the other hand, there was now a heavy sense of foreboding looming over her.

As if Morgana and her schemes weren't enough of a threat, as if the squabbling of the nobility weren't enough of a chore, the possibility of facing war again was not something she relished. Arturia was no stranger to battle, but neither was she a warmonger.

There were certainly those that disagreed. Those that had simply wanted to be left alone, rather than bow to another King during the Twelve Wars, and likely would have been perfectly content in their isolation. But it was Arturia's role to unite the people of Britain under one banner as its one true King, and thus put an end to the constant warring of the smaller Kingdoms.

Regardless of what others wanted or even what Arturia herself wanted, Britain had to unite. There was no room for renegades.

She took in a deep breath, releasing it as her eyes ran across the walls of Camelot. The sun was beginning to dip in the west; the days were growing shorter, bit by bit, and soon winter would be on the wind. She would need her forces to bring in a portion of the harvests for the city.

She stood for a moment longer before closing the shutters, and sweeping from the room.

As the sun descended closer and closer to the horizon, the shadows grew long across Camelot. The western sky took on vibrant pinks and oranges as the east darkened to deep indigos and blacks, and the alleys and crags were plunged into an ever-deepening shadow.

* * *

The streets quieted down as the common folk withdrew to their homes, shops closing up for the night as soldiers patrolled the streets and square. They did not expect to find anything aside from perhaps a petty thief, but even so, they did not talk amongst themselves; they kept silent as they stuck to their posts and patrols, the only sounds being their footsteps and the clicks of their armour.

The people felt safe inside their city, with great white outer walls forming a gargantuan circle around the city to protect them even from the ocean, the city having been built right at the edge of the eastern sea. Within the city itself, another wall separated the common folk and the markets from the nobility; though the gates that led into this secondary sanctum were left open, guards were still posted at each one, braced for the long night ahead.

But it was all nothing compared to the Castle proper.

Beyond the third and final wall, the largest and most well defended wall of the city, was Camelot Castle. The great towers of the Castle jutted up towards the sky like great pikes and lances, monolithic structures that towered over everything and seemed to scrape at the sky itself. The seat of power from which King Arthur reigned over all of Britain; a fortress seemingly pulled straight out of a fairy tale. Something that couldn't have been made by human hands, being too perfect for their clumsy, primitive hands.

And if her Mother's stories were to be believed, that may very well have been the case.

There was no doubt in her mind that each of the three walls was lined with dozens of archers upon the parapets that ran every few hundred feet, waiting for any sign of an invading force, be it from the land or from the sea.

But she doubted they were prepared for a lone, skilled intruder.

She waited with her breath baited as the waves darkened from blue and grey to black as her armour, the fickle wind threatening to rile the calm waters into a frothing rage; when she found the shadows had deepened enough, she pulled herself from the dark water, wedging her gauntlet's clawed fingertips into the rough stone.

She gripped, and pulled herself out of the sea entirely; she'd been down there for hours, only coming up every now and again for a breath before sinking back into the depths. Any normal Knight that tried this would have drowned, pulled into the dark by the weight of their own armour and the strength of the tide, never to be seen again.

She was no normal Knight.

She gazed up at the parapet high above, cracking her jaw. Having only just pulled herself from the sea, she had a long climb ahead of her before she reached the top, and the wind was growing more violent. But the archers above were likely on the lookout for ships, if anything; this was something she doubted they would anticipate.

She couldn't help but smirk, ignoring the cold on her skin. There was a certain joy to be found in unorthodox tactics.

Reaching up again, she dug in with her other hand, pushing up with her legs and mainly using her arms for balance and grip as she climbed. Her muscles and bones gave no protest, their reinforcement rendering the task trivial. She kept pace with the shadows as they rose up the cliff, never moving beyond them for the sake of caution. Only when the sun fell behind the horizon completely did she pick up her pace, the rhythmic clicks of her armour bringing a sense of satisfaction each time she gripped the scant spaces between the stones. Even when she reached the top of the cliff, she did not so much as slow, immediately transitioning onto the base of the parapet.

When she neared the top, she stilled just beneath the jettying, listening for the soldiers she knew would be up there.

What she heard nearly succeeded in bringing forth something that was a mix between a laugh and a snort of disgust.

"Aaaand that's my win, Percy."

"Dammit!"

A loud thump, as though someone were striking a barrel.

"How do you keep doing this? Every time I think I have you figured out you pull some new trick for this stupid game!"

"I've been playing this for a long time, Percy, you can't expect to beat me after two months."

"Rgh…"

There was a stomp, and then a series of footfalls as one of the soldiers approached the edge.

"What are you doing?"

"Going back to my post, Roy."

"Percy, come on."

"No. I'm sick of playing this with you."

"Hey, you just need more practice. I'll teach you a few tricks."

"I said no!"

She began to creep further up once more, carefully reaching up to grip the stone above her. She put more active effort into her arms this time, gripping the overhang as best as she could; though not worried about the height, she did not want to repeat that climb if she could help it.

"Percy, you're not gonna see anything. No one's gonna be stupid enough to send a ship against Camelot."

"What about a trading ship? Or a messenger?"

"At this time of night? Only if something's gone wrong."

"Exactly."

She pulled herself up, her feet leaving the stone entirely; she grit her teeth, and hoisted herself up again, finding herself once again in a more comfortable position past the jettying. The lip of the parapet was only a few feet away now.

"Alright. Fine. I'll consider this my win then."

"Say what you want, you're not baiting me into another loss."

"If you say so."

The sound of stones clicking, and then a box being shut. She could see the first soldier now from between the crenels, staring out into the sea. He hadn't seen her.

Moving quickly, she reached up, and grabbed him by his throat; before he could so much as let out a gasp of surprise, she had crushed it in her grasp and pulled him over the edge, and sent him sailing into the dark below, his mouth gaping open in a silent scream that would never heard.

"I got a title for you once you're Knighted. 'Sore Loser Percy.' 'Percy, Knight of the Quitters.'"

She gave no response, merely waiting.

"… Percy?" there was a note of worry in the other soldier's voice now, "Percy, where did you go?"

Silence. Then quick footsteps as he approached the edge.

"Percy, this isn't funny-!"

She vaulted up between the crenels, her hand closing around his throat with enough force to crack burnished oak. He couldn't even choke; his lungs could neither fill nor empty, and blood dripped from the sides of his neck as her claws dug into his skin.

One more squeeze, and she felt something give way. Whether it was his spine or his larynx was not important; either way, he fell limp in her grasp, and she wasted no time throwing him to the sea after his fallen partner.

She turned, and scanned the courtyards and towers of the castle, eyes narrowing slightly behind her mask. The easy part – getting in – was over with.

Now she needed a distraction, so she could freely pursue her objective.

* * *

Mordred sat on the stool, feet swinging back and forth slightly as Mother gently brushed out her damp hair. Her sword had been put in its place with the rest of her toys, resting atop a large wooden chest and awaiting the next day.

Mordred hadn't stayed to listen to the rest of Father's conversation with Agrajerk. She knew that she had only barely dodged getting into trouble when she wandered into his study; once the door had closed, she only lingered for a moment before running off again, though this time it was not to play.

Father's words lingered too heavily in her mind.

"Going to war."

She had spent the rest of the day wandering from room to room until she had been called for dinner; the meals were usually gross and much too big because of Gawain, but tonight it had been even worse. Mordred had barely even picked at her meat, the only part that was actually somewhat edible, and she couldn't stop glancing up at Father.

As always, his expression was blank, never once meeting her gaze throughout the meal.

"Mordred?"

The girl jolted, started out of her thoughts by the sound of Mother's voice. She sat stock still for a moment, then gradually began to relax, "… Yes, Mother?"

"Are you alright?" Mother had stopped brushing her hair for the moment, moving to get a better look at Mordred's face, "You've been unusually quiet tonight."

Mordred looked up at her for a moment, then looked away, trying to think of what to say. Finally, she risked the question, "Is Father going to be okay?"

At this, Guinevere was taken aback. She blinked, "What do you mean, Mordred? Why wouldn't your Father be okay?"

"… I heard him talking to Agravain earlier… I was playing in the halls, and they didn't notice me," she started, looking up at Mother again, "Father said something about… going to war."

At this, Guinevere's expression turned briefly to open shock… and then firmed up into something else as she looked to the door. She bit at her lip, muttering, "Arthur…"

"Mother?"

The Queen returned her attention to Mordred, trying to give the girl a reassuring smile, pushing a stray hair back behind her ear, "I'm sure things are fine, Mordred. If we were going to war, your Father would have told me."

Or at least, so she hoped. It wasn't often she was invited to Round Table meetings; though Arturia did at times ask for Guinevere's council, it often felt token.

Guinevere knew she had her role to play. The wife to the Perfect King… but sometimes, she couldn't help but wonder how much her role was actually worth.

Despite her misgivings, however, her reassurance seemed to have some kind of effect. Mordred gave a slow, small smile of her own, one that brought a blossom of relief to Guinevere's heart. The toddler nodded, "Okay."

"… but I do have to ask," Guinevere started, "Where were you that you would have heard your Father speaking with Agravain? Weren't you supposed to have lessons with Lady Trumane today?"

At this, Mordred's face flushed red and she looked away, muttering the harshest words that a sheltered five year old could conjure.

"Mordred, did you sneak out of class again?" Guinevere couldn't hold back the note of amusement in her voice, but she did make sure to keep her tone scolding – she did not want to encourage Mordred's bad habit of sneaking away to play.

"N-No…" Mordred wouldn't look up at her.

Guinevere tilted her head slightly, waiting…

"… yes… but I finished the chapter like I was supposed to."

There it was.

The Queen let out a soft sigh, picking up the brush again, "Mordred, you know you can't be sneaking out of class like this. How are you going to be a proper Lady if you keep sneaking off to play instead of staying to learn?"

"I don't wanna be a Lady!" Mordred declared, crossing her arms. She was looking up at her once again, expression defiant, "I wanna be a Knight!"

Guinevere let out a chuckle, running the brush through Mordred's hair, "And do you think just playing every day is going to help you become a Knight?"

"I'm not just playing! I'm practicing!" there was a note of pride in Mordred's voice now, "I'm gonna be the strongest Knight Britain has ever seen!"

"Hmm…" Guinevere brought a hand to her chin, seeming to think this over; she didn't believe Mordred's desire to become a Knight would persist, but for now, it could be used to encourage better behaviour from her, "I don't believe Lancelot became a Knight by only practicing with his sword…"

"… huh?"

This made Mordred blink. It was no secret that Lancelot was one of her primary role models, being the strongest and most chivalrous Knight Camelot had to offer.

"That's right," Guinevere stated, "Lancelot needed more than just sword skill to become a Knight of the Round Table. He needed to prove he was intelligent – knowledgeable in history, politics and the law, and skilled in his reading and mathematics. I believe he is fluent in no less than three separate languages."

All traces of defiance had fallen from Mordred's face. She was now staring at the books on the dresser, her expression a cross between desire and reluctance.

"I don't think you will have much luck becoming a Knight if you keep skipping your classes, Mordred. You'll need to pay close attention and perform very well if you want to be a Knight."

"… okay," there was no disappointment in Mordred's tone; only an underlying current of resolve.

"Do you promise not to skip any more classes, Mordred?"

"I promise."

"Do you promise on your honour as a Knight to be to never skip again?"

The toddler's eyes lit up brighter than stars, "I promise!

"And do you promise to be nice to Lady Trumane and stop sneaking off on her?"

This time the enthusiasm faltered slightly, but the Queen still received a nod, "I promise I'll be good... but that doesn't mean Lady Trumane isn't boring."

Guinevere couldn't stop herself from chuckling, "That isn't a very nice thing to say about your teacher."

"But it's _truuuuue!_ "

"Alright, alright," Guinevere laughed, finally tying Mordred's hair in place, a simpler variation of her normal braid, "I think you're about ready for bed now."

"Mmm…" Mordred stood, walking over to her large bed and lifting the large fur covers. She slipped in, quickly disappearing from sight save for the large lump under the blanket that indicated her presence before crawling up to her pillows; she popped her head out, looking up at her Mother again.

Guinevere gently leaned over, and kissed Mordred on her brow, "Good night, Mordred."

"Good night, Mother."

The Queen nodded, and then reached for the candle on Mordred's bedside table.

"… Mother?"

"Yes?"

"… could you sing for me? Please?"

Guinevere smiled, sitting down on the bed, "You want me to sing you to sleep?"

Mordred bobbed her head.

"Alright. Close your eyes…"

When her daughter did as she had been bid, Guinevere brought that old lullaby back to mind; she had sung it so many times now that Mordred knew it word for word and note for note. Even without an accompanying lute or harp, the Queen's voice was enough to soothe Mordred's breathing into a slow, gentle rhythm, and before long, she was on the verge of slumber.

And then a scream pierced the air, ripping them both from their reverie.

"Fire! Fire in the stables!"

As if waiting for a cue, there was a sudden rise of commotion from beyond the window facing into the courtyards; in an instant, Guinevere was across the room, throwing open the shutters and staring out into the night.

A thick pillar of smoke rose from beyond the courtyard's far wall and the chapel, accompanied by a dark orange glow that illuminated the stone. Distant shouts and the panicked whinnies of frightened horses echoed in the distance, and a chill ran down the Queen's spine.

Stables were always at risk of burning – it only took a small spark for a blaze to erupt – but Guinevere could tell that it wasn't just the hay that had ignited. Even from this distance, she could tell the fire was too intense for that; no, the entire building would have had to be set ablaze for that kind of glow and smoke to be thrown into the air.

But for that to happen, when mere minutes ago there was nothing of note… what could have happened? Was this an attack?

"Mother?" Mordred had crept out of bed again, and was now tugging on Guinevere's dress. The mix of fear and concern on her face was more than evident from her wide eyes, "What's going on?"

Guinevere swallowed, then closed the shutters, kneeling to look Mordred in the eye. She put her best efforts into her smile, placing her hands on Mordred's shoulders, "It's alright, Mordred. There's a fire in the stables, but it doesn't appear to be too bad. Please go back to bed; I'm going to try and see what happened-"

She was interrupted by something being thrown against the door, hard, along with a cry of pain.

"Y-You bastard-!"

The voice was cut off by a choke, and a blade burst through the wooden door like a steel geyser, making the entire thing rattle on its hinges.

It was soaked in red, its tip and edge chipped slightly from colliding with steel; a few rings of chainmail fell to the floor with drops of blood, and splinters of wood and bone were stuck to the flat of the blade.

Slowly the weapon retracted, and something slumped over onto the floor beyond.

A few seconds later, the door opened. A body had been pushed to the side, the guard's hauberk armour pierced through the back.

Guinevere froze at the sight of what appeared to be a knight as tall as Camelot's largest knights, wearing a full suit of plate armour black as pitch, crimson highlights along the plate's edges. The steel made only barely audible clicks as the figure stepped into the room, framed in the door like the portrait of a demon. Instead of a helm, they wore a matching dragon themed mask that concealed most of the upper face, including their eyes. What skin was visible beneath the mask was ghastly pale in colour, contrasting black veins running up the neck and cheeks. Their blood red hair was tied back in a long plaited braid, snaking down past their waist.

She didn't even hesitate. Moving to the front of the bed, Guinevere held her arms out, shielding her daughter with her own body from this mysterious figure. They tilted their head slightly, but otherwise did not react.

"Who are you? What do you want?!"

"... You aren't supposed to be here."

Guinevere shivered, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. The voice was low, husky, but _echoed_ as if multiple people had spoken at once, just moments apart, giving their speech a vaguely tenebrous quality.

It wasn't human. Whatever this... this _thing_ was, it _couldn't_ be human.

"Stand aside. I'm here for the girl. I have no interest in you at the moment," Even as it spoke, the eyes of the mask looked past Guinevere, burning bright and with a fury much like the fire outside.

Mordred gripped Guinevere's dress even tighter, a sound akin to a whimper escaping her. The poor girl was terrified – scared out of her mind.

For a moment, it almost seemed as though the figure, this Dark Knight, scoffed at Mordred's behaviour.

Guinevere felt something stir within her that she hadn't felt before; she was a rather protective person by nature, especially so with Mordred. But now it seemed that protectiveness was rearing into something more primal, more violent – a reaction to someone threatening her daughter. She pushed Mordred back, urging her to get back against the wall, "I won't let you touch her!"

"..."

The sword that had burst through the door was hanging from the Dark Knight's claws… but rather than attack, it drew a simple cloth, and ran it along the blade, clearing it of blood and debris before slipping it back into its sheath at its hip.

It then drew a knife with a wicked edge from a separate sheath on its belt, silent just like the armour as it shifted but no less deadly for it. The Dark Knight moved forward then, the black steel reflecting the torchlight.

Guinevere tried to make a grab for it, tried to somehow keep herself between Mordred and the attacker. A loud crack echoed throughout the room as she heard, rather than felt, a backhand her across the face, knocking her to the floor. Two of the talon-like fingers had cut into the cheek as it connected, drawing blood.

That same hand grabbed by her shoulder while she was still stunned from the impact, pulling her up and back into the metal breastplate, the cold steel of the knife moving to her throat. Instinct and adrenaline taking over, Guinevere grabbed at the knife with both hands, leaping up and driving the top of her head straight into her assailant's chin. When they only grunted in surprise, she pushed off the bed in front of her with both feet and drove both of them into the opposite wall with a thunderous impact. White-hot pain erupted from both hands as the cold steel cut deep, but she refused to release the knife, knowing it would be fatal to do so.

The two struggled over the knife for what felt like forever. The Queen was small, light and completely inexperienced in battle, grappling against a monster in full plate for a weapon that was cutting deeper into her hands with each tug and pull. She couldn't hurt them in any way, and it was taking everything she had just to keep the weapon away from her throat.

Her grip finally gave out as the Dark Knight hissed in anger, smashing her in the back of the head with a forearm then pulling the weapon free as she fell. She cried out in agony seconds later as a boot was driven hard into her stomach, the wind driven from her lungs and leaving her a gasping, bloody mess.

"Mordred... Mordred... run..."

All Mordred could do for a long moment was stare, wide eyed, as the creature stood over her fallen Mother. The Dark Knight, despite being so similar to what she saw in her daydreams, was far more terrifying than anything she could have envisioned. Huge, powerful, and cruel, it stared down at the woman writhing on the floor, seeming almost intrigued.

 _'_ _Pathetic,'_ the Dark Knight thought, her attention drawn away from Mordred for the moment, _'Valiant, yet pathetic. The child isn't even yours, yet you put your life on the line for her sake.'_

It knelt, and Guinevere let out a strangled cry as the gauntlet wrapped tight around her neck, pulling her up into a sitting position and cutting off her air flow, "You humans are foolish beyond reason, fighting when you know you have no chance."

The cold steel of the knife, wet with her blood, was pressed against Guinevere's throat, the Queen too weak to do any more than grip the monster's wrist – to no avail.

 _CRACK!_

The first swing caught her by surprise; she took the wooden blade to the jaw, Mordred's swing carrying all the way through. Her shock was enough to force her to drop both Guinevere and the knife, the small steel blade clattering to the floor.

"Leave my Mother _alone!_ "

Despite the overwhelming odds, Mordred had finally worked up her courage. She had snatched up her wooden sword, tears of fear and fury threatening to spill down her cheeks as she rushed towards the monster, ready to swing again.

It wasn't enough to hurt by any measure. The blade was too light, the girl too weak. She doubted it would even bruise.

But it was still enough to make her angry.

The Dark Knight glared at the girl as Mordred went for a second swing; she raised her hand, stopping the wooden blade dead in its tracks, and yanking it out of the toddler's grip, and tossing it aside.

Mordred's eyes followed the sword as it clattered to the floor, and she immediately sprinted for it, moving as quickly as her little legs could carry her, arms outstretched to pick up her weapon. There was a jolt of pain through the Princess' scalp as the creature lunged forwards and caught hold of her long braid; Mordred let out a sound that was between a yelp and a cry before she was promptly dragged back across the floor and away from her sole hope.

A deep red haze brought about by rage was obscuring the Dark Knight's vision as she glared at the Princess writhing in her grasp. She wanted to strike the struggling girl, to gag her, to do something to shut her up and get some form of retribution for the blow. She reached into her pouch, ready to pull out another cloth-

 _"_ _No."_

The voice echoed in her mind, bringing her to a complete halt.

"… she'll cause a commotion," she spat, "She'll draw attention and make my escape more difficult than it has to be."

 _"_ _She's a toddler. Strike her too hard or put too much in her mouth and she may very well die. I need her alive."_

She grit her teeth in frustration, then swallowed her anger. They were further parameters to her mission – that was all, "Very well."

She then gripped Mordred under her shoulders, and hoisted her up. Mordred screamed, kicking and hitting with everything she had; this wasn't like with Lancelot, who was gentle and kind, or with Father, who at the very least wasn't rough with her. The gauntlets were digging into her skin through her nightgown, scraping and scratching, and it hurt. Worse, this monster had come in here and hurt her Mother; she didn't want to go with it. She didn't want to go!

The Dark Knight paid her no heed, pulling the thrashing, struggling child under one arm and stepping over the fallen Queen. She had no more time to waste; she needed to leave _now_.

"M-Mordred…" Guinevere gasped, trying to push herself up as the figure strode towards the door. She reached out, blood dripping from her hands, "Mordred!"

"Mother!"

And then both the monster and the child were gone through the doorway.

* * *

Mordred struggled, trying to pull herself out of the monster's grip as it ran down the hallways. It had its sword drawn now, and was paying her very little attention.

"Let! Me! Go!" she shouted, "Let me go! LET ME GOOOO!"

Abruptly, the grip around her midsection tightened, squeezing the air from her chest, "Quiet!"

A pair of guards rounded the corner, no doubt drawn by the toddler's screaming. The Dark Knight clicked her tongue, redoubling her grip on her sword.

"Princess-!?"

Before the word could be finished, she had swung her blade. A pair of helmed heads flew through the air, spinning as their bodies collapsed to the ground, blood gushing onto the stone.

Mordred couldn't see any of it happen past the bulky armour, but she did feel a few drops of red fall into her hair and onto her nightgown; she stiffened, swallowing hard as she stared at her sleeve.

And then she screamed again, wordless and echoing.

The arm squeezed again, and the sound was cut short, Mordred left gasping for breath when her chest didn't have enough room to properly fill.

"If you can't stay silent, you will share their fate!"

More guards would be on their way, soon. She needed to find a way up, back to the top of the walls. If she could just get back up there, the rest would be easy.

Finally, the stairwell entered her vision, and the Dark Knight let out a breath she wasn't aware she was holding.

It just as quickly came back as he stepped out of the dark.

Adorned in gleaming silver armour etched with the letters of the fae. with a long blue cloak, his indigo locks falling about his head and shoulders like waves, his gait was steady and resolute. His body was slim, but strong, and he stood over six feet in height, his eyes immediately fixing to the girl under her arm.

She couldn't stop the curse that escaped from her lips as she skidded to a halt, eyes narrowing behind her mask and teeth grit in renewed anger.

His presence did not go unnoticed to Mordred. As soon as she saw him, her eyes brightened with sudden hope, "Lancelot!"

The Knight of the Lake gave her no response, his gaze instead fixing on the figure carrying the Princess. His expression darkened, and his hand was on Arondight's hilt, "Put the Princess down. Now."

The Dark Knight offered him no response. Their gaze flickered from his eyes to the sword at his hip, and then back to his eyes.

She didn't have time for a prolonged confrontation; despite how much she wanted to test her skills against a Knight of the Round Table, she had a limited amount of time to get to the top of the walls. She had made a mistake putting her sword away when the Queen refused to back down, costing her precious moments that would have been crucial to this final phase; it seemed that despite the fact that nobility and royalty were often kittens compared to normal warriors, not all of them were without their claws, ineffective as they were.

This was no kitten. This wasn't even the cub most human warriors were; this was a direwolf, fangs bared and ready to tear his enemies asunder. Furthermore, she had a squirming child under one arm, which would significantly hamper her ability to fight. She certainly had no moral qualms about using the toddler as a human shield, but she was needed alive, with no permanent harm; even as a surprise or an attempt at a distraction, it was out of the question.

If she were to try and find another way up, however, it would prompt a pursuit, and possibly draw more guards to her location – or worse, more Round Table Knights. Lancelot may be renowned for being the most skilled Knight among them, but that did not mean the others were not threats. Besides that, the Knight of the Lake was blocking her closest access point to higher ground.

She cracked her jaw, then finally smiled.

She didn't have time to play… but perhaps a brief exchange wouldn't be impossible.

With that, she tightened her grip on her sword, and threw herself forwards, her blade angled directly for Knight of the Lake's throat.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Arondight was brought to bear, and the enchanted steel deflected his foe's sword. It shot past his head, shaving away a few hairs before he gave a retaliatory swing, aiming to remove his opponent's head with a single clean blow.

Instead, they pushed back, spinning away before beginning another approach, already taking another swing.

Even with their grip on Mordred forcing them to use but one arm, the weight behind their attacks was still considerable. Chainmail would normally be enough to protect from a standard blade, but this kind of strength was more than enough to force even a dull blade through the interlocking metal links; Lancelot parried the blow once more, but quickly realized he was in no position to retaliate. Mordred was right in the path of his blade should he attempt to attack his opponent's left side, meaning he would be forced to keep all his attacks on his opponent's sword arm.

Still, he shoved his opponent back, trying to keep them from pushing any further. It was clear that his foe, whoever or whatever they may be, was attempting to make off with the Princess.

On his honour as a Knight, he would not let that happen.

This time, he took the offensive; before they could gain proper footing, he swung Arondight high, bringing it down in a deadly silver arc that could easily split the helm of any normal warrior.

As he anticipated, they raised their sword to parry, evidently hoping that the force behind his own attack would cause their blades to simply slide apart, and that he would stumble under his own energy.

Lancelot couldn't help the grim sense of satisfaction that took root when their blades collided. But Arondight did not slide down the angled blade.

The Dark Knight nearly stumbled under the sudden pressure – the Knight of the Lake had angled his sword just perfectly at the end of his strike, so that their swords would remain in contact and allow him to force his weight and strength upon her. Sparks flew, and chips fell from the already damaged blade; she suspected that the only reason Arondight didn't bite all the way through her sword was because Lancelot didn't want it to.

 _'_ _Trying to take me alive, then?... or do you hope to force me to release the homunculus?...'_

She grit her teeth, pushing back against the Knight of the Round Table with greater force than before. Though she did manage to push Arondight back, she did not manage to break the stalemate. Her blade audibly creaked under her own strength along with Lancelot's own.

Shouts were echoing from down the hall now, back from where she had just came; someone must have found the dead guards or the Queen, and it wouldn't be long now before every Knight and soldier in the castle were in pursuit of her.

"There's nowhere for you to go," Lancelot intoned, "No shadows for you to run to, no cracks for you to slip away with. Release the Princess now, and you may yet find mercy."

"Oh?" despite herself, she grinned, "Trying to find out who sent me rather than kill me outright?"

"If I wanted your head, I would already have it a dozen times over," the Knight's tone was cool, his even breath despite their clash proof of his stamina. There was no boasting in his tone, either; he spoke plainly and without pride, treating his strength and skill as fact, "I will say it once more. Surrender, and release the Princess."

A grimace crossed the masked warrior's face… but just as quickly, it reformed into a grin. Her only response was to lean more heavily into her sword…

And Arondight bit all the way through.

Lancelot's expression morphed into one of shock as his blade descended; he forced himself backwards, stumbling as he tried to keep the sword from slicing into his opponent, or worse, into Mordred. By the grace of God, he managed to slash only air, and a brief moment of relief filled his heart.

It was quickly quashed by his opponent.

The remains of the Dark Knight's broken sword were arcing up towards his head, far too quickly for even the Knight of the Lake to merely dodge. Despite Arondight's great length, he pulled it up just in time to parry the gleaming, broken steel… but it wasn't fast enough to stop the impact of the weapon entirely. The guard bit into his temple, a small trickle of blood pouring down the side of his face upon impact, and stars quickly entered his vision.

Not one to merely stand still in a moment of weakness, Lancelot swung, and his opponent again dashed back out of his reach… and then rushed past him, and into the shadow of the stairwell.

He gripped his head, gritting his teeth as he tried to staunch the bleeding. He hadn't anticipated that his foe would willingly break their weapon in order to gain an advantage… moreover, he hadn't anticipated they were actually _capable_ of doing so.

It was no cursed blade, that could be determined with a glance, but despite the chipped surface that had resulted from clashing metal, the sword they wielded had been of excellent quality, simple, but strong and flexible. More than capable of withstanding most clashes, and nigh impossible for a normal soldier to simply break on a whim. A weapon of that quality would have to be thoroughly mistreated for it to break so easily in human hands.

Arondight had bit into the mundane steel with ease, of course, but it had gone no further than what Lancelot had wished. He had been wielding Arondight for so long that it may as well have been an extension of his very being; he knew exactly how hard he had to swing to bite all the way through a masterfully crafted blade.

Had he misjudged his swing? Had he caused more damage to the weapon than he had intended?

His eyes fell upon the broken blade upon the floor. Part of the break in the metal was completely smooth, moving up the blade at an angle and stopping just short of the fuller in the center – the result of the impact with Arondight. The rest, however, was jagged – the result of brute force, the blade having snapped under raw power rather than any further push of the Knight of the Lake's sword.

He hadn't misjudged.

His opponent was simply that strong and precise – deliberately breaking their own sword to end the struggle.

"Not a normal warrior," he murmured, turning to the stairwell and beginning his pursuit.

This was an equal to the Knights of the Round Table.

* * *

Merlin wasn't typically one to interfere with the lives of humans. There were times where he advised Arturia on what course of action to take, certainly, and he did quite enjoy spending time and sharing beds with beautiful women, but by and large he was content to leave humans to their own devices, only giving them the occasional nudge in the right direction.

That wasn't to say he didn't take precautions. Like Morgana had done with her own castle, Merlin had placed magical wards across the entirety of Camelot. He knew everything that happened within the city's walls; everyone who entered, everyone who left, where they were, and what they were doing.

Nothing went on in Camelot without his notice. Not even Lancelot's affair with Guinevere.

He was mildly surprised when the soldier scaled a parapet to get into the city – a parapet directly positioned on a cliff facing the sea, no less, with no tools to assist in the climb. Surprised, but unconcerned. It wasn't the first time that Camelot's soldiers had faced unorthodox tactics, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

The fire in the castle stables less than an hour later had garnered a bit more of his attention. It was true that stables were notorious for being particularly flammable – Merlin had learned this the hard way when he was a boy – but not once had they ever caught aflame during Arturia's rule over Camelot. With the intruder in mind, he sincerely doubted that it was a coincidence, but still, he wasn't particularly worried.

It was when the soldier entered Mordred's room that it occurred to Merlin that an ordinary soldier probably wouldn't have been able to climb first a cliff and then a parapet with no tools to begin with – much less after treading water for what may have been hours in full armour. By the time that he realized that a very real danger had somehow snuck its way into the castle, it had already wounded the Queen and was trying to make off with the Princess.

That, he supposed, was what made hindsight an even bigger pain to deal with than clairvoyance. You can change the future, but the past is set in stone.

That was why he had left his study and was currently waiting in the hall at the opening of this particular stairwell.

He raised his staff, a soft blue light beginning to emanate from its head, "Three… two… one…"

As soon as the Dark Knight came into view, he let his magic loose. The glow at the head of his staff shot forth, splitting into a trio of spiraling bright lights that forced it to break out of its sprint in order to dodge beneath their arc.

But rather than simply sail past to strike the wall, each of the bright orbs arced in midair, one rising up, the others sweeping to the sides, and all three closing in, each from a different direction.

With left and right no longer an option to dodge and her back against the wall, the Dark Knight threw herself forwards, hoping to get up the stairs before another volley could be launched. However, when the orbs collided with each other, the result was a small explosion; not enough to cause damage to her or to her captive, but the concussive force was still enough to shove her forwards mid-step, destroying her footing and nearly sending her colliding with the stairs. She threw an arm out, hissing at the slight jarring that ran up her arm to her shoulder, but at the very least she had kept her brow from striking the sharp edge of stone.

"It's a shame you're probably quite a few years underage," the voice of her attacker sent chills down her spine, "I imagine you look rather striking under that mask of yours."

Her head snapped up, and she took in a mischievous smile combined with a ridiculously long mane of white hair. His robes seemed to flutter in a nonexistent breeze, and he leaned lazily on his staff, the unconcerned twinkle in his eyes speaking more to his curiosity than any real worry he might have had about her presence.

 _'_ _Merlin…'_

"Merlin!" the girl under her arm shouted, beginning to squirm once again. She looked to the mage, desperate tears beginning to stream from her eyes, "Mother's hurt! She-!"

"I know, Mordred," Merlin said, spinning his staff in his grip, "But I don't think she wants my help yet. She'd never forgive me if I were to forgo your safety for hers."

With that, he pointed his staff at the Dark Knight again. She tensed, and lunged forwards – and not a moment too soon, as Arondight struck the floor where she once stood, a slash that might have removed a foot if it had landed.

Lancelot was already moving into a second swing as his target shot up the stairs; the black clad Knight spun to face him, only barely tilting her head back enough to avoid a swipe that would have taken her jaw clean off. The Knight of the Lake's expression was one of coldly controlled fury as he claimed yet more ground, a return swing once again arcing at her ankles, forcing her to practically jump up the next few steps to again avoid losing a foot-

"Too slow."

She stiffened, and what felt like an electric shock rocked her body as magical energy slammed into her back, forcing the air from her lungs and nearly ruining her landing altogether. She only barely caught herself, struggling to take in air as Arondight finally met its mark.

Her armour bore the brunt of the blow, protecting her from the thrust as it caught her full in the chest. It still dented inwards, leaving a distinctly uncomfortable sharp edge of split metal against her skin as she fell backwards, unable to stop herself from hitting the floor.

Having finally reached the top of the stairwell, however, she was finally back on solid ground. Taking advantage of her new momentum, she threw herself back over her shoulder and onto her feet. Mordred was still somehow none the worse for wear, albeit now likely a bit dizzy.

She immediately turned, and sprinted in the opposite direction once more, struggling to regain her wind and put some distance between herself and the Knight and Mage. Fighting one with the girl under her arm and an intact blade was enough of a struggle; fighting both with the girl and a broken blade would be suicide.

Merlin simply turned to watch her run, his smirk never falling from his expression even as Lancelot ran to his side.

"What are you doing!?" the Knight of the Lake hissed.

"Keeping calm and formulating a plan, Lancelot," Merlin replied coolly, not once meeting the Knight's glare.

Lancelot scoffed, then prepared to take off after the fleeing figure.

"Hold on."

"What!?" Lancelot shouted, turning to face Merlin once again.

"Think about this, Lancelot. Cat and mouse with this one isn't going to be a game you can win," the Mage spun his staff from hand to hand, tip planted in the ground, "She's been running at a sprint for about three solid minutes. The only reason she's slowed is because you and I successfully managed to wind her. Before long she'll regain her wind, and you will wind up losing yours. If this keeps up, she _will_ outrun you."

Lancelot let out a low growl, but offered no response as he glared down the hall after the retreating figure.

"Besides, you saw what happened when you finally landed a hit with Arondight."

At this, the Knight of the Lake fell entirely silent, his gaze falling to his silver sword. After a long few seconds, he spoke again, voice quiet, "That thrust… should have run them through."

"And yet all you managed to do was dent her armour," Merlin stated, "This is a real monster we're dealing with. Conventional methods aren't going to work."

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

"Just chasing her around isn't an option, that much is certain," Merlin brought a hand up, scratching the back of his head, "If it were me… I'd look for a way to get her cornered."

"And how do you suggest we do that?"

At this, Merlin's smirk only grew wider. He brought his fingers to his temple, and closed his eyes…

And Lancelot felt a sudden, painful twinge in his head, causing him to flinch, gripping at the side of his head with his free hand.

* * *

Originally she'd thought of the size of the Castle as a challenge. With its great walls and many winding corridors, Camelot would undoubtedly proved to be a labyrinth, a maze in a class all its own. At any other point, a worthy endeavour if only for the sake of putting her mind to the test.

Now, however, it was an annoyance of the highest degree.

Another fifteen minutes of sprinting through winding hallways and the Dark Knight had only just found another stairwell to continue her ascent. She could hear commotion echoing from below and above, though at this point it was impossible to tell how close she was to being cornered again. She needed to get out, _now._

Finally, she slammed through a thick wooden door, the telltale slivers of silver light hinting on what lay beyond, and she found herself facing the blinding white light of the waxing half moon as she stepped out onto the ramparts.

Not a single cloud hung in the sky above; the stars were innumerable, spread across the inky darkness like scattered diamonds. In the far distance, her sharp eyes caught the dim shine of Mercury, the messenger of the Gods and patron of thieves, and she couldn't stop a satisfied smirk from crossing her lips. Perhaps luck would be on her side, with that celestial presence out tonight, so late in the year.

Almost immediately after, however, she felt that satisfaction slip away; torches lined the ramparts as more and more soldiers emerged into the chill night air. The shouts and clatter of metal made it all too clear that the alarm had been raised, and the defenders of Camelot were beginning to move as one. No longer would she be facing small, two man patrols that she could easily catch off guard and overwhelm; now, she would be facing entire squads of fully armed soldiers.

She took a breath, pulling back into the dark for a moment.

"You'll never get away."

The Dark Knight couldn't stop her heart from skipping a beat, head whipping from side to side in a moment of panic; had the Knight of the Lake caught up to her once more?

It took a moment for her to realize that it was the girl under her arm who had spoken. She grit her teeth, frustration building in her chest again, "I thought I told you to be silent."

"They're going to get you," the girl's voice rose in volume, anger rising in the toddler's tone, "The Knights are going to get you!"

"Quiet."

"They'll lock you in the dungeon!" Mordred's voice had risen to a shout now as her struggles renewed, glaring up at the red-haired monster with all the fury and threatening presence a four year old could muster. She started to flail, punching and pushing against the black armour with everything she had, "They'll catch you, they'll beat you, and Father will have you locked up forever! He'll make you pay for what you did to Mother-!"

Again, the black Knight squeezed down on the girl, this time with enough pressure to make Mordred squeak in pain, the wind driven from her lungs again.

"You talk too much. The only reason you are alive is because others allow you to live," she hissed, "Now. Be. Silent."

Mordred's squirming slowed once more, but it did not die out completely. She remained defiant, her glare still firmly in place now that the fear had largely been replaced with rage.

Ignoring this, her captor cracked her jaw, peeking out into the night again. At this stage, it was just a matter of waiting for Marzia to arrive so she could make her escape.

But she needed to be visible for Marzia. Remaining inside wasn't an option.

She took a look at the broken blade in her grasp, biting at her lip. Though breaking her sword had been a necessary measure, it greatly limited her options in a fight against multiple opponents, regardless of how much she physically outclassed them; normally she wouldn't need to worry about her weapons against mere humans, but the girl under her arm changed the nature of the fight. She couldn't risk letting the toddler be wounded.

Her sharp ears twitched at the sound another door slamming open, this one beyond her view. More voices rang out, and she could hear yet more soldiers beginning to pour into the parapet, undoubtedly taking up positions to defend the castle.

Her teeth ground into each other a little more against her will. It seemed she had no choice but to leave the safety of the shadows; if she could maintain a fast enough sprint, she may still be able to outmaneuver the soldiers for at least a few minutes more.

She took one last breath, and swept out onto the rampart with all the speed she could muster-!

Only for an inhuman shriek to cause her to freeze in her tracks, leaping back as an arrow of pure sound slammed into the walkway before her.

Her eyes shot up to the higher ramparts of the castle, seeking out her attacker. She did not need to look long; clad in silver armour with a white cloak, his red hair tousled lightly by the night breeze, Ser Tristan stood upon the battlements, his bow at the ready.

 _'_ _Damn it… this complicates things.'_

She had been warned about the weapon in his hands.

The bow was given its name for a reason; it was a weapon that would strike true and without fail every single time its bowstrings were so much as strummed, a weapon that Tristan had supposedly made himself.

Each "arrow" that the bow fired was not a physical object that could be blocked or dodged. It was a projectile wrought from wind and shaped by sound, a shrieking cry fashioned into a physical force that shot forth faster than any mortal being could possibly move, that twisted and turned in midair like a falcon through the sky or a fish through the sea, and struck with enough force to punch cleanly through plate armour with little resistance. A skull - even the Dark Knight's, her bones reinforced with magic – would be a mere afterthought.

But even if Tristan were to aim for her body, she doubted her armour would be able to protect her against any more than two, possibly three hits before the arrows broke through. And because it was sound rather than physical arrows that Failnaught loosed, he was not bound by the arrows one could hold in a quiver or the number of arrows he could put to the bowstring. He could fire his weapon as quickly as he could strum the strings – which could mean dozens of armour piercing spears launched forth in a matter of seconds.

Proud as she was, the Dark Knight was not about to delude herself into thinking she could somehow outrun sound itself.

Her escape had been cut off, and they both knew it. The only things keeping Tristan from killing the Dark Knight outright were the girl under her arm, and the fact that she was evidently wanted alive.

"That's far enough. Lay down your weapons and surrender."

For a long moment, she did not respond, merely continuing to stare up at the infuriating archer high above. Eventually, she turned towards the voice, forcing a mask of calm over her growing anger. Another trio of Knights stood, backed by dozens of soldiers, every single one of whom had their weapons trained upon her – mostly spears and crossbows, though a few swords had been drawn, shields held together to form a wall across the front line.

The Knight on the right was the taller of the two, his expression a furious glare, his short golden hair, blue eyes, and most notably his gleaming blue blade immediately giving away his identity. The Knight of the Sun, Ser Gawain.

The Knight beside him was a few inches shorter, his long gold hair tied back in a braid and his expression tightly controlled, keeping the black Knight from discerning any particular emotion. Unlike Gawain, his sword remained sheathed, but the ruby gave away all she needed to know; Ser Gareth, protégé of Ser Lancelot.

But it was the one who stood front and center, the cold mask sending chills down the masked warrior's spine. The woman who united Britain by force over the course of twelve long, brutal wars.

"Father!" Mordred began to struggle again, fighting to slip out of the monster's grip and run to the King.

Eyes narrowing behind her mask, the Dark Knight was tempted to squeeze the air from the girl's chest once again. However, one more voice called out, this time from the parapet she had just emerged from, "I'd recommend putting the girl down now, sweet cheeks. You're outclassed and outnumbered."

Slowly, she turned on her heel; her lips curled downwards into the faintest hints of a scowl at the sight of the white-clad mage as he leaned against the wall, a coldly furious Knight of the Lake by his side.

"… and why would I do that?" she finally asked, her multi-toned, echoing voice ringing in the ears of all who could hear it.

Merlin's lazy posture was only matched by an equally lazy, infuriatingly smug grin, "That last spell I hit you with? Didn't feel like a serious attack, did it?"

"…"

Indifferent to her silence, Merlin pushed away from the wall to take a few steps forwards, "That spell wasn't an attack or even a debilitation of any sort. It was a tracking spell."

A second passed, and then it clicked; the Dark Knight's gaze immediately snapped to the ramparts where Tristan stood, and Merlin's tone seemed to grow even more smug.

"It wasn't hard to give your location to the Knights of the Round Table. A small twist on the magic of familiars," the Mage mused, "Even if you were to leap off the ramparts here and now and somehow survive, they'd be able to find you. No matter how fast you ran or where you tried to hide in Camelot, they would still know exactly where you were, and by extension, how to corner you."

Still, she gave him no response. Instead she turned her head to scan the faces of the Knights surrounding her. First Merlin and Lancelot, then she shifted to Tristan high above, before moving towards the three Knights in front of her, and then once more back to Merlin.

"Put the Princess down, lay down your arms, and surrender," the King's voice carried a weight that forced the Dark Knight to look upon her. Despite her small size, the King radiated a presence that was impossible to ignore, a regal air that demanded respect, "If you do so now, I promise you shall be treated justly. If you do not, your life will be forfeit."

A harsh silence fell over the rampart, the world itself seeming to wait for someone, anyone, to make a move. The tension in the air was stifling, so much so that the very air felt like glass; the wrong move would not simply break it. It would cause it all to shatter.

For what felt like an eternity, the Dark Knight said nothing, did nothing. Her breathing was slow, measured, the masked visage never breaking eye contact with the King; a battle of wills, neither side backing down. The soldiers gripped their weapons tighter, audible creaks becoming audible in the crossbows still trained on the Princess' captor.

 _"_ _Don't bother,"_ the voice echoed in her mind again, _"At this stage trying to fight to keep her is a suicidal venture. Play along, for now."_

Finally, a long, drawn out breath escaped the Dark Knight… and she let go.

Her broken sword clattered to the ground first, the sound of metal on stone ringing out so loudly that several soldiers nearly let loose their crossbow bolts on reflex.

Mordred let out a yelp as she was released, falling to the stone and only barely catching herself on her hands and knees, her arms and legs jarring from the impact. It took her a moment to push herself up, gathering her bearings, and then her eyes fell upon her Father.

She didn't even bother looking at the Dark Knight towering beside her. Mordred just sprinted forwards, clamping her arms around her Father's leg with all her remaining strength.

For a long moment, Arturia did not look down. She simply kept her eyes upon the Dark Knight, a hand idly moving to remove Mordred from her person…

Then she heard a whimper.

She couldn't stop herself from looking down. The homunculus had buried its face in the long blue fabrics of the King's fauld, but she didn't need to see its face to know what it was doing; Mordred's shoulders shook uncontrollably as it tried to compose itself, but ultimately, it failed.

It began to cry – each sob long and loud, muffled only by the cloth it now pressed itself into. Fear and pain, joy and relief – all were intermixed in the wordless cries that the thing let out, each so genuinely human…

Arturia could only barely keep her mask in place, her orders dying in her throat. A distinct sense of discomfort began to well up in her stomach, and for a long moment, she didn't know how to react. Finally, she knelt, a hesitant hand falling on Mordred's head, "Mordred. I need you to listen to me."

The sobs did not stop. They kept coming, but at the very least, the homunculus made an effort to raise her-… its head, meeting the King's gaze through her falling tears.

"You aren't safe here," Arturia stated, "I need you to go back to your room with Ser Gareth."

"M… M… M-Mother…" Mordred managed between uncontrollable sobs, still clinging to Arturia's leg, "S-She's… h… h-hurt…"

"I know. The physicians are already seeing to her," the King said, "I need you to do as I say. Return to your room with Ser Gareth."

A few more whimpers, but eventually, Mordred gave a quiet a nod.

Gareth offered a hand to the homunculus, a soft smile on his face in an attempt to give her some form of comfort; she took his hand, still trying to get her sobs under control as the pair turned and walked back towards the parapet, the soldiers parting to allow them passage.

The Dark Knight looked on, a clear expression of disgust curling on her lips as she glared at the girl clinging to Gareth as they retreated. Before long the soldiers were closing the path they had formed to let them pass, and she knew that Mordred was lost to her.

The King rose to his feet again, his cold gaze returning to the Dark Knight's.

"Arrest them, and take them to the dungeons."

A pair of soldiers emerged from the bulk, stalking towards her with manacles in hand; their courage seemed to be bolstered by how outnumbered the Dark Knight seemed to be. No one, no matter how mighty, could possibly stand up to this many Round Table Knights at once.

She waited, her heartbeat rising in anticipation. With each beat of her heart, colour slowly drained away from the world, the deep, dark blues of the sky turning black as pitch, the vibrance of the banners fading to a muted grey. And yet with the fading of colour, came the sharpening of the world around her, down to the faintest scuffs and marks on the armour of the approaching soldiers. She could see every imperfection around her, and knew just how to exploit them.

Humans really were such pitiful creatures.

She waited until she felt armoured hands grip at her wrists, saw the manacles open, about to encase around her own...

And then she lunged, a sudden kick shattering the knee cap of the guard to her right. As the man buckled and collapsed beneath the broken limb, howling in pain, the Dark Knight swung a clawed gauntlet at the other guard, the taloned fingers catching beneath the helm and slashing straight through his hauberk and into his throat. She felt no resistance as her fingers, sharp and strong like a hawk's talons, ripped straight through his windpipe, the man falling to his knees in a gurgling spray of blood.

Her brutality was so sudden, so horiffic, no one was able to react as the Dark Knight grabbed hold of the swords hanging at their waists. Each carried a longsword with two handed hilts, plain in decoration, but of high quality construction. She pulled the blades free of their owners' sheaths in a single fluid motion, seizing the advantage as she sprinted towards Arturia and Gawain before the two bodies had even hit the ground.

It was too late for Tristan to try and stop them from attacking. The Dark Knight had thrown herself into the fray with the ferocity of a dragon.

She charged King Arthur and Ser Gawain head on, leaping into the air and bringing both blades down with all her might. Excalibur and its sister sword Excalibur Galantine met the attack head on, a thunderous clash of steel ringing through the air. The Knights of the Round Table bore steely expressions of determination, their masked opponent sporting an almost feral, devil-may-care smile, excitement burning through the mask.

"Stay back!" Gawain roared to the soldiers behind them, "This is our fight now!"

He pushed back against the initial onslaught, forcing the Dark Knight back towards the middle of the ramparts, as much to drive his opponent back from himself and his King as it was to keep the half circle of soldiers safe from this dangerous enemy. There was more to this lone infiltrator than any of them had realized.

The Dark Knight refused to relent, slashing and stabbing like both her new swords were full extensions of her limbs, the blades trying to find any weak points in their guards. Without the child in her arms to hamper her, she was moving much faster now, each swing hitting harder, much more precise.

The King and the Knight however were no strangers to combat, and held fast against the onslaught. It was a firm block by Gawain, driving his shoulder directly into the Dark Knight's chest, that forced the attacker back, allowing him to press forward.

With Arturia matching his speed, both knights moved and fought as one. He swung high, she swung low. He tried to disable a leg, while she moved to thrust Excalibur through the enemy's torso. Up and down, left and right, the two attacked with complex, powerful combos that showed a level of cohesion of true companions who had fought through many wars together, knowing the other's moves as well as their own.

The Dark Knight held her own, twisting, ducking and blocking time and time again, forced onto the defensive but refusing to back down. She moved from one position to the next, maintaining a stalwart form and balance while swinging the blades separately and with incredible skill, showing her decision to fight with two blades was not just for show. While she was unable to completely regain an offensive edge to the fight, neither could Arturia or Gawain find a way past her defences.

Lancelot quickly pushed past his compatriots as the soldiers began to fall back, recognizing how outmatched they were in this battle. Merlin remained where he was, studying the fight with an almost lazy dismissal that belied the alertness of his gaze. Recognizing how dangerous the warrior in front of them was, the knights were leaving nothing to chance, Arondight's blade flashing brightly in the moonlight as the Knight of the Lake joined the fray.

The Dark Knight spun to the left, both of her swords lightly striking the flat of Arondight's blade. It left no marks upon the surface, but between the blow and the sidestep, the sword fell harmlessly to the side. Instead of retreating, the Dark Knight pushed forwards, maintaining her aggression and refusing to let her enemies get too far away from her blades.

The addition of Lancelot entering the fray however soon proved the difference. Even with her impressive dual wielding skill and animalistic agression, the odds were simply too great to overcome. The Dark Knight soon found herself getting overwhelmed, Excalibur catching her on the back of one shoulder, then receiving a hard kick to the gut from Gawain that staggered her when she tried to retaliate.

For a few moments more, the Dark Knight managed to protect herself against the continuous, three way onslaught, even managing to knock Gawain back temporarily with a well placed elbow to the chin and kick to the chest, pushing him away, but it was only delaying the inevitable as they surrounded her, pushing her back and pinning her to the crenels.

The Dark Knight tried once more to free herself, managing a step forward, then two, only to spin in place, eyes wide beneath her mask as she was forced to fend off blows from both the King and the Knight of the Sun at the same time. She ducked another swing from Lancelot, then fell to one knee to brace herself as Arondight came down towards her head. She managed to block with the sword in her left hand, but only just. It was close enough that the blade managed to nick the tip of one of the mask's horns. Both of her blades creaked under the pressure of three Round Table Knights pushing down on her, immobilizing her.

"Hold him down," The King's voice was cold as ice, as was the glare directed at her foe, "Don't give him a chance to escape again."

"You'll pay for your crimes tonight, you monster!"" Gawain snarled, Excalibur Galantine starting to dig into the steel of his opponent's blade.

A growl of her own escaped from the Dark Knight, baring her teeth in a snarl as she tried to find a way out. She had underestimated her opponents, she realized now. Though her skill was great, so too was the skill of her opponents. Their coordination was simply superb. There was a reason Morgana considered the Knights of the Round Table to be equally dangerous as the King himself. Humans as a whole may have been weak, pathetic creatures, but these warriors were an exception to the norm.

She chafed at the thought of having to use any of the tools that had been provided to her for this mission; she had hoped to prove herself through strength, skill, and cunning alone, but her hand was forced. She no longer had the option of holding back.

Hidden behind her mask, the Dark Knight closed her eyes, channelling her energy throughout her body…

For a moment, it appeared to the three knights that their opponent was indeed about to surrender.

The next moment, crimson sparks of electricity flared into existence, first around the torso, then spreading through the limbs. The eyes of the mask began to glow a bright, bloody light, a sinister smile on her face.

Arturia's eyes widened by a fraction, realizing what was happening.

"Scatter!"

What could only be described as an explosion of prana erupted from the Dark Knight, knocking all three of the knights back with its intensity. The stone cracked beneath her feet as she surged forward, full fissures spreading through the stone. She appeared to almost be on fire as the prana surged through her body, electric surges visible in the flaming aura as she attacked again with all her might.

Far above, watching from his spot atop the adjacent tower, Tristan longed to intervene, but dared not risk it. Extraordinary as Failnaught was, it was still a bow. Its vacuum arrows could twist and turn in the air unlike the arrows of normal bows, but he could not simply reverse cause and effect like the legendary Crimson Spear of the Ulster Cycle. He still needed a clear path from the bow to the target. The Dark Knight was moving way too fast, far too quick to track their attack patterns, and getting right in the face of whichever knight attacked them. Way too close to risk trying to offer aide.

If he tried, he very likely would hit an ally as well as the target. He cursed inwardly, berating his helplessness.

Even still, he kept Failnaught at the ready, waiting, hoping an opportunity would present itself in time...

Again and again, the Dark Knight threw her full weight into each strike, hammering away on each Knight. Gawain was knocked aside by a kick, and soon after even Arturia was forced back by the monstrous onslaught.

Lancelot however held his own, using every last bit of his skill and mobility to counter the Dark Knight's power, looking for a gap in his foe's defenses. Now, he slowed, deliberately letting his arms drift forward. As he hoped, his foe took the bait, one sword batting Arondight to the side before lashing out with the other to open a gash from elbow to wrist. But in doing so, the Dark Knight squared up himself. Lancelot bulled in, knocking his opponent's defences away and slashing them in the stomach and ribcage so hard, the Dark Knight doubled over, crying out in pain.

Instead of a crippling blow however, the Dark Knight only seemed infuriated. Rising with a vicious snarl, she gripped Arondight's blade with a swipe of her arm, pinning it against her black armour before Lancelot could pull it free; she then raised a leg, and drove it into his chest, the prana exploding in her limb with enough force to completely break Lancelot's stance. He flew backwards, flipping and managing to land on his feet in a crouch, Arondight still in his hands, but the wind driven from his lungs; he gasped for air as he rose to his feet.

She then turned her full attention towards the King, not wanting to give them any time to start using their own prana as well. She offered the King no quarter, spinning and swinging both blades so quickly that they appeared to be a pair of silver blurs of motion, bathed in the red light of her prana burst. Against this furious onslaught, each strike or thrust hitting harder than any human, Arturia found herself back-pedalling quickly. Compared to the five knights she had fought all at once during the tournament just days before, this single opponent was far more dangerous, ferocious, and was fighting to kill. If she made a mistake, the attacker would very easily get their wish.

A thrust straight to the head and neck, the blade just missing the top of her ear as she narrowly avoided it. A few seconds later, she had to resort to using her gauntlet as a makeshift shield alongside Excalibur's blade, blocking a pair of crisscrossing strikes to the torso. She was losing ground, struggling to keep up, unable to muster her full strength because of the Dark Knight's incredible ferocity.

A jolt of panic ran leaped in her stomach as her back crashed into the rampart wall. Too late did she realize her lack of attention to her surroundings. She was pinned in place, much like her opponent had been mere minutes before. Her eyes widened, trying to somehow keep up her defences as the Dark Knight raised her blades to hammered away, like a beast trying to tear apart its prey.

"Away with you, cur!"

Excalibur Galatine suddenly cut in between the two warriors, blocking both blades at once before they could land and forcing the enemy back as Gawain rejoined the fray. Adrenaline and pure skill allowed him to surge forward, finally putting an end to the Dark Knight's momentum. Indeed, the Knight of the Sun had the advantage, forcing his adversary back once again. To the Dark Knight's disbelief, her raw power was being matched by Gawain's own – the strength behind each swing was incredible, her muscles actually being pushed back under their weight. No doubt Gawain's bones were creaking under the strain, but he didn't seem to care; his teeth were bared in a vicious snarl as he pushed forwards.

"You shall not touch the King!" he roared, yet another strike forcing her back another step.

The Dark Knight was truly impressed, despite herself. Gawain might have been weaker than Lancelot, but it was a mistake to take him lightly because of that; his skill with a sword was still nigh superhuman, and his strength was even greater. It even came close to rivalling her own, almost seeming to ignore her prana-bolstered strikes entirely, albeit at a cost – even now, she could see the drops of blood that fell from Gawain's gauntlets, his grip on his sword so strong that it had long since broken the skin of his calloused palms.

Truly, an incredible amount of strength and determination. A worthy adversary indeed.

But she could sense it. For all Gawain's strength, he was still human. And unlike Lancelot with his unparalleled skill, he was far more likely to make a fatal mistake.

She held back ever so slightly as she defended herself from his offence. Stepping back with each block, each dodge and parry, waiting for that moment. Bringing her sword up to parry the attack with the flat of one blade, before batting the blade to the side with the other, but making no attempt to return to the offensive. Not yet.

Now...she slowed just a bit, her arms drifting slightly further apart, as though from weariness.

"This ends now!" Excalibur Galatine came up as Gawain pressed inward, hands gripping the hilt with an unyielding grip, planning to swing downward and disarming or crippling her in a single strike.

And in that moment, he stepped forwards too far, his stance too wide – forced to compensate for the amount of power he was putting behind this final blow.

Another surge of prana exploded from the Dark Knight without warning as she suddenly swung both blades up at the same time, parrying with incredible power.

Excalibur Galatine was nearly knocked clean out of Gawain's grasp, the blade knocked high and away from his torso at the most crucial moment. He staggered back a step, off balanced, unable to defend himself –

"Now you die!"

\- as the Dark Knight threw all her effort into both blades, aiming straight for Gawain's heart and lungs.

For a long moment, time seemed to slow. Everyone was stunned by the sight of Excalibur Galatine being knocked away so easily, leaving Gawain defenceless, something thought impossible for anyone but another Knight of the Round. It truly looked like the Knight of the Sun had been bested, his life ended protecting the King and Princess from a deadly assassin.

But in her haste to end it, the Dark Knight had overlooked a single detail.

Her timing had been perfect. She had exploited the one weak spot in Gawain's defence with flawless precision. By all accounts, it should have been the perfect kill.

But while her strength in that moment had been superhuman in nature thanks to her use of prana, her stolen blades were forged from very human, manmade steel. They were battered, chipped and even cracked in places from the hard fought battle.

The moment the blades made contact with Gawain's armour, the strain and abuse from the battle became too much to handle. Both swords exploded from the impact, a shower of steel spraying out around both warriors, leaving one blade destroyed outright, while the other only had enough steel to be roughly the same length of a crude dagger.

"Tch!" With a snarl, the Dark Knight threw the one ruined weapon away, keeping the longsword dagger, switching it to her dominant hand.

That he was still alive seemed to take Gawain a moment longer to process fully, as it took him a second longer to react. He only narrowly avoided the swipe of the makeshift dagger as it came at him, then managed to block two more swipes before ensnaring his opponent by their arm, pinning the limb against his body as it passed by.

The defensive grapple was sloppy and made in haste, preventing a firm hold. A headbutt knocked him off back, before the Dark Knight leaped up and over him, feet pushing off the back of Gawain's shoulders as she propelled herself to a safe distance.

She spun in place, switching to a reverse grip, ready to continue the fight even as the situation had changed so abruptly –

And then she heard it. The strum of harp strings.

Her head was knocked violently to the side as Failnaught hit its mark, her mask shattering into pieces. The world spun as she was knocked back, slamming into the stone wall of the crenels behind her. She crumpled in a heap on the floor, blood on her tongue, a taste truly foul - not copper or iron, but something far more bitter, making her stomach churn as she lay there.

Tristan lowered Failnaught, a frown on his face as he studied the result. Had he put an end to the fight like he had hoped?

... No. By some incredible stroke of luck, the attack had struck their mask, preventing what surely would have been a fatal blow.

Indeed, the Dark Knight was already slowly struggling back to their feet, gripping at what was left of their mask. Even as the King and her Knights watched, blades at the ready, the shards crumbled away, falling through their fingers like dust in the wind. Before long, most of it had fallen away entirely. The only shards that remained were lodged in their white skin, large fragments of black metal that dug into their flesh, black, bloody tears flowing down the cheeks from no less than a dozen wounds.

Finally, the clawed gauntlet fell in resigned frustration, revealing the entirety of _her_ face.

Gawain was stunned. "A woman?!"

"Golden eyes…" Lancelot couldn't stop himself from staring. They were the eyes of a beast, golden with white pupils. Every time she blinked, they seemed to pulse with a magical energy.

"A homunculus," Merlin stated, pushing away from the wall to get a closer look, "Interesting. No wonder she such a beating, and it certainly explains the prana burst."

The homunculus said nothing, grabbing the wall behind her, steadying herself as she rose to her full height once again, breaths ragged as fatigue finally began to reach her, all her burning of prana having drained her. An ugly scowl was visible beneath the blood and broken pieces of her mask; she raised a hand to briefly wipe some of it away, but as soon as she did the blood reached her eyes and cheeks again, the wounds bleeding too freely for her to do anything to stop the flow.

When her hand fell, she found Excalibur at her throat.

"Listen and listen well, " the King spoke, "You are beaten. You are outnumbered. You have no other options. If you surrender now, you will be given fair judgement. If not, we shall execute you here and now."

The scowl did not leave the homunculus' face, the one visible eye slowly moving from one knight to the next. The broken longsword dagger was still in her hand, but she had greatly underestimated the drain of constantly using prana burst in a fight; her body ached even without the wounds she had received, and she was only now starting to catch her breath, throat raw, the cold night air only serving to worsen it. The Knights had her surrounded now, one on each flank with the King in the center; outnumbered and surrounded.

Perhaps there were too many after all.

No matter. Her eyes flicked up towards the night sky. She had delayed them long enough.

 _Thrum..._

They all felt it at the same time, a powerful push of energy...

 _Thrum..._

A sudden, distant beat. Like a war drum.

 _Thrum..._

Closer and closer, growing loud as thunder as something approached from the distance.

 _Thrum._

Only out of pure human reflex did any of them clutch at their heads, the pressure hurting their ears...

 **THRUM!**

It was one of the sentries that spotted it first. Not a colour or a shade, but a _shape_ — a great mass of black that was visible only because it blot out the moon and stars with its immense form. A shapeless form in the darkness… until its great wings rose once more.

"DRAGON!"

Beautiful. Monstrous. Terrifying. The words tumbled over each other as the gale overtook them, the shadow burning its visage into their eyes. The mighty wings, the lashing tail, the powerful body, the sinuous neck and the massive, triangular head with eyes burning like purple hellfire in the darkness as it came to rest upon the battlements, roaring an almighty bellow that reverberated through the stone with unparalleled might.

It was not a Dragon, Lancelot realized as he got a better look at it, but actually a wyvern. The biggest wyvern he had ever seen in his life. So large that it stood nearly as tall as the entire parapet behind it, easily dwarfing the warriors in front of it.

The homunculus' scowl changed to a satisfied smile. She moved quickly, prana boosting her strength, climbing the creature's massive flank and onto the dark leather harness around its chest — a saddle, Lancelot now realized — and shout a command in Latin. "Volant, Marzia!"

 _'Volant…. Fly!'_ the word translated immediately in his mind, and before anyone could move the wyvern had spread its wings, a dark purplish hue reflecting the torchlight around it. With a single flap, it buffeted the Knights of the Round Table before turning, diving off the edge of the rampart. It plunged straight down for nearly fifty feet before spreading its wings and catching the wind, quickly rising up into the sky.

"Shoot it down!" he shouted, turning tot the higher ramparts, "Tristan! Shoot it down now!"

Tristan was already taking aim. Within seconds he had decided on a course of action; he strummed Failnaught, and his first arrows took flight.

The wyvern gracefully rode the wind, far more gracefully than anything its size should have; but even it could not outrun Failnaught's arrows.

The first arced underneath the great beast, and then shot upwards across the wyvern's chest. A second later, the wyvern collided into something in the air – something unseen, but not unfelt.

The beast let out a bellow of surprise, coming to an abrupt halt in the night sky. She beat her wings with greater force to regain her stability, hovering in the cold air hundreds of feet above the ground; the invisible tether was still there, intangible, yet painfully sharp.

And then the other arrows followed.

Dozens of them, one after the other in the span of mere seconds arced all the way around the wyvern, head to tail; dozens quickly turned into hundreds, each bringing their own invisible tether. They bit into Marzia's scales like razors, scoring her body with dozens upon dozens of cuts. Only when the wyvern was almost completely bound did the arrows cease their relentless assault, leaving the beast hanging like a puppet tangled up in its own strings.

A spike of power emanated from the castle, and the Dark Knight looked back, eyes narrowed. She did not need to see him to know that Tristan was beginning to follow up on his initial assault.

Tristan kept his arm steady as he pulled back on the strings of Failnaught; he had the beast bound now. All he needed was one final shot.

But he never had the chance to release it.

There was a distant pulse of power, so faint that Tristan only barely noticed it; a burst of prana emanated from the beast like an expanding shell, and the tether connecting the beast shattered. Simply undone, as though it had never been fired to begin with.

In the distance, the wyvern jerked in midair, snapping free of its impediments. Within seconds, it had resumed its normal flight, moving further and further away from the castle with each wingbeat, completely unaffected by Failnaught's sound snares.

He slowly lowered Failnaught, a frown creasing his brow as he stared after the shadow. Only when it became indistinguishable from the space between the stars did he step away from the crenels, starting towards the parapet with an unshakeable feeling of foreboding.

* * *

"Well," Merlin started, tone only slightly subdued; though he could recognize the tension in the air, he himself remained unconcerned. He leaned against the crenels, staring out into the night at something only he could see, "I suppose that settles that."

"Nothing is settled," Arturia spoke, slowly sheathing her blade; she scanned the skies, but the shape of the wyvern was now beyond her sight, "An intruder got into Camelot Castle – past three walls, past several armies' worth of soldiers, and managed to duel with multiple Knights of the Round Table. And on top of all that, they escaped."

"To be fair, Your Majesty," Gawain began, "We _were_ holding back. None of us utilized our blades' true power. I imagine that things would have gone very differently if we had."

Lancelot shook his head, "The reason we didn't use our blades' true power tonight is because we effectively _couldn't_ , Gawain. We cannot use our full strength frivolously within Camelot's walls, lest we cause more damage and take the lives of our own. We were forced into a confrontation where we had to rely entirely on our skill in a melee – and that thing very nearly killed you."

At this, Gawain flinched, a hand going to his heart. There were gouges in his armour where the swords had broken, shattered under the force of inhuman strength meeting a steel shell that even few shields could match.

Arturia turned away from the skyline, looking the Knights over, "The fact remains that now we have an powerful unknown adversary strong enough to challenge members of the Round Table itself. She managed to match all three of us however briefly – even if she was bolstering herself with magic to do it."

"Not even the half of it, Arthur," Merlin chuckled, "That wasn't just a homunculus. That was a combat homunculus of exceptional quality – one capable of using prana burst, albeit not to the same extent as yourself. There's only one person I can think of, other than myself, that can put something like that together."

The name hung in the air, silent and heavy; it seemed to be waiting to be said, but no one wanted to be the one to say it.

Eventually, the King broke the silence, "All of you, return to your posts. See to it that the dead are gathered and readied for funerary rites. In the meantime, our biggest concern is damage control; word of this incident is going to spread like wildfire. I don't want this getting out of hand."

"And what of the homunculus?" Gawain asked.

"We shall discuss tonight's events in greater detail later," the King declared, "Now go."

A silent nod, and Lancelot and Gawain both turned and strode forth in opposite directions to each other, quickly disappearing into the parapets. Merlin gave Arturia one last smile, before disappearing from view, leaving her alone atop the rampart.

* * *

She had flown throughout the rest of the night, teeth grit as she slowly worked the shards of her broken mask out of her skin. With each metal shard she pulled free, there was a fresh stab of throbbing pain, black blood flowing down her cheeks like tears.

She had failed. She had managed to reach the ramparts, she had almost escaped with the girl in her grasp, only to have victory snatched from her at the absolute last moment. Each of Marzia's wingbeats carried her farther and farther from Camelot, and as the distance grew, so too did her quiet anger.

Her nostrils flared as she pulled another shard free from her brow, her blood warm on her skin as it flowed, only to chill in the crisp autumn night air. She knew it was foolish to remove these now, but she didn't care; her frustrations were far too acute for her to pay it any sort of mind.

The sky began to brighten as she flew over the forests of northern Britain. By this point, the homunculus had long since pulled out every shard she could with her hands; the rest would require more precise tools and a steadier hand than she possessed. For the most part, she had wiped away the blood from her face with her handkerchief, but it had still pooled around her eyes and brow; even once those cuts began to close, her face would still look like a mess.

She would need Mother to treat her wounds properly.

The mere thought made her sick with shame.

But she had no time to dwell on it.

Home came into view at the same moment that the sun broke the horizon; the massive castle was nameless, as far as she knew, an abandoned fortress Mother had seen fit to make use of. Despite its size, it was almost completely empty – Mother had explained her preference to remain alone, sacrificing a life of privilege and servants for the sake of solitude.

She had Marzia land atop one of the towers and dismounted, taking care to lead the wyvern into her roost. The dark scaled beast seemed to let out a breath of relief when she removed the saddle, giving the Dark Knight a light nuzzle atop the head as though in thanks. She then lit the brazier in the center of the room, piling on plenty of wood to ensure it would burn well into the later hours of the day; the wyvern then curled herself around the brazier and drifted off into a quiet slumber, eagerly absorbing the heat of the flames within.

That done, the Dark Knight stalked off into the halls, hands clenched.

It did not take her long to find Mother at all; most of the castle went largely unused, now, despite all the magic that Mother had worked into it. Mother tended to keep to two particular areas; when she wasn't in her tower toiling away with her magics…

She came to a stop before a simple wooden door – one of the few that had not rotted off its hinges, still in excellent repair, a faint orange glow emanating from the other side. Faint cracks of flame could be heard from the other side along with the occasional footsteps, the clacks of metal upon wood, and the gentle hum of a wordless lullaby.

The Dark Knight steeled herself, and pushed through. The warmth of the room was almost startling compared to the relative coolness of the hall; bearing a rustic, homely air, there was a wooden table by the closed shutters of the window on the far side of the wall, only large enough for two people. A gentle flame danced in the carefully tended hearth beneath a pot that hung from an iron bar, a welcoming warmth gently emanating from the coals.

And at the counter, Mother stood, her pale lips curled in a slight smile as she minced the herbs before her. When she looked up to meet the Dark Knight's gaze, her golden eyes glinted, though with what, the Knight couldn't guess. All she had to go on was the unnervingly serene smile of Morgana le Faye.

"Morrigan," the voice was deep and maternal, echoing from low in her throat – at once imposing and caring, powerful and gentle, "It's good to see you. I was afraid you had gotten lost."

Morrigan grunted, stepping over to the table and sitting down with her arms crossed, eyes narrowed upon a knot in the wood.

It did not take much for Morgana to take note of the frustration in the homunculus' posture; everything from the hunched shoulders to the way she clenched and unclenched her jaws screamed of an inner turmoil, most of it directed at herself.

The Witch didn't bother trying to hide her smile; instead, she returned her attention to the minced herbs on the cutting board before her, her tone growing slightly scolding, "You certainly took an awfully long time to get here. You've been here for nearly an hour, and you spent most of it tending to Marzia instead of coming to see me."

She could see Morrigan's shoulders tense further, posture stiffening like a child that had been caught misbehaving; the homunculus did not look up at her, instead glancing off to the side. Either she was trying to think of an excuse, or she had found a particularly interesting pebble on the floor somewhere.

It was almost amusing to see the homunculus so contrite; when Morgana had first released her from the stone egg, the homunculus' first impulse had been to attack. Had Morgana been a lesser mage, the initial impact would have killed her instantly, throat crushed and spine broken – a method of killing that seemed to be becoming a favourite for the girl.

Granted, the homunculus' attack had promptly stopped when she realized who she was attacking, but it still spoke of an intensely violent impulse – one that took weeks of effort to temper. Even now, it wasn't yet fully curbed, Morrigan possessing not just an ingrained, incredible battle prowess, but an active desire to put it to use.

Violence and pride – those were, in Morrigan's mere weeks of life, her defining features.

To see her like this, hunched and humiliated, was something that made Morgana want to laugh. But, she did not.

"Is there something wrong, Morrigan?" Morgana asked instead, "It isn't like you to drag your feet for anything."

"… I failed," the homunculus managed through her clenched teeth.

Morgana remained silent, waiting for Morrigan to continue.

"I failed to retrieve the girl," Morrigan stated, raising her voice as though to make sure her words couldn't be mistaken. She brought a hand to her forehead, her fingers digging into her scalp, "I was careless. I was unable to escape in time-"

"I am already aware of your failure to retrieve Mordred, Morrigan," the Witch stated, stepping over to the simmering stew and brushing the minced herbs into the broth, "I was monitoring your entire mission. You know this."

She heard Morrigan let out a long, slow breath. The beats of silence that followed were interrupted only by the faint scraping of the spoon Morgana used to stir the pot.

"I have no excuse. The fault is mine," Morrigan finally stated, a steel in her tone now, "I was careless, and it cost us both. It will not happen again."

"I'm happy to hear it," Morgana's tone was surprisingly warm, "I hope that means I can trust you to take tonight's lessons to heart."

"… lessons?" Morrigan's voice now carried a hint of confusion.

Morgana smiled, turning to face her homunculus, "Indeed. If you are being sincere, then tonight should teach you not to be so reckless."

"… you say that… so easily," Morrigan said, eyes narrowing.

"Don't worry about it for tonight, Morrigan," Morgana stated, her smile never faltering, "We will discuss it later – _after_ we have eaten, I have treated your wounds, and you have gotten some rest."

Morrigan worked her jaw, eyes narrowed. Mother was being _far_ too lax about this, almost completely unconcerned. She should have been angry.

Instead…

Morgana stepped over, and extended a hand, placing it on Morrigan's shoulder.

"Later," she promised, "You've had enough for one night."

Far too unconcerned, Morrigan decided.

But she was not one to disobey.

She sighed, and then nodded, "Very well, Mother…"

"Thank you, Morrigan."

Morgana pulled away again, and Morrigan turned her attention to the closed window. Along the edges of the shutters she could see the faint glimmer of sunlight, so bright it was white against her eyes.

She couldn't shake the unease in her stomach. This didn't feel right. She had not been alive for long, but she knew Mother was not one to take loss or failure lightly. And yet…

"Oh, and Morrigan?"

The homunculus turned to face her once again, the golden eyes of the Witch and her creation fixing upon each other.

Morgana smiled again, "You did very well tonight. You should be proud of yourself."

At this, Morrigan blinked, mouth opening in shock. She wanted to rise to her feet, to demand to know what Mother meant by that, to know why she should be _proud_ of a complete and utter failure of a mission…

But before she could, it echoed.

 _"_ _Later,"_ the word rang in her mind…

Along with the chime of a small bell.

Morrigan swallowed, hard, the ethereal sound sending a thrill down her spine and a sudden stake of fear through her stomach. Her eyes flickered to Mother's hands, but there was nothing there – all the Witch held was the wooden spoon she was using to stir the stew.

The homunculus wasn't sure if she had actually heard it or if it was just her imagination… but either way, she did not want to take any chances. She remained in her seat, and lowered her gaze to the flames in the hearth, trying to steady her hammering heart.

* * *

Man... it's been a while, huh?

Sorry it took so long for us to get back to this. Batomys 2731 already explained the difficulties we had getting this up, but I still feel the need to apologize for it regardless.

The specific scene that gave us so much trouble was the fight scene, as between us we had no less than four versions that got about five revisions over the course of well over a month. Eventually we managed to find a middle ground with what we wanted, but suffice to say we are going to endeavour to make sure this never happens again.

With any luck you'll be seeing the next chapter sometime in September. We're going to try and get back on a schedule, but with all the stuff going on in our respective lives at this point we can't make any promises.

Unfortunately, we will no longer be doing any more review responses; the bulk of reviews that pour in each chapter is just too much for us to keep up with in a timely fashion. We are sorry, and hope this does not upset you.

In regards to the fight scene, there's a couple things I want to address:

One, the Knights of the Round were indeed holding back. They were in an area where they couldn't risk using their full capabilities lest they cause collateral damage.

Two, Arturia is explicitly not the strongest among the Knights of the Round Table. Lancelot is outright said to be her superior in pure swordsmanship, and it's implied to be a similar case with Gawain, and she has to make the difference up with her prana burst. But again, it's difficult to use prana burst in a fight like this because of the risk of collateral.

Three. Morrigan is explicitly not human - she is a combat homunculus with naturally augmented abilities made from Morgana's blood. You know what that means: Fairy blood. By extension, a fairy's magical power. Combine this with a homunculus' manufactured fighting prowess and magical power... and you get something with a lot of power to throw around.

...

Thank you for reading, and we hope you enjoyed and continue to enjoy Knight of the Heart.

*Side Note: Arturia Lily playing with war figurines like dolls. You can never unsee it.


	6. New Developments

Dammit, it's been too long since the last update... sorry for the wait everyone. Here's hoping the length of the chapter makes up for the wait we put you through...

As always, Batomys2731 and I do not own TYPE-MOON or any Fate or any related materials thereof. If we did, Arturia would be less mean to Mordred in the FGO events.

...

* * *

Guinevere's eyes stung as the sun began to rise above the horizon. It was slow, seeming to drag itself up and over the edge of the world with a herculean effort; however, the vibrant pink shine it should have cast across the sky was cut short by the dreary grey cloak of clouds above, seeming to completely blot out all the world's colour, the once vibrant leaves of the trees and fields that she could see from her window reduced to dull greys, browns and straw yellows. A faint, but chill breeze blew in through the window, the drapes fluttering gently in its wake and making her shudder with the sudden flash of cold, but she couldn't bring herself to close the shutters.

She felt too vulnerable to sleep now. In the two days since the attack, she hadn't gotten so much as an hour's worth of rest; when she came to bed, it was all Guinevere could do to keep herself from pacing. She could force herself to sit or even lay down beneath the covers, but no matter how heavy her eyelids grew or how exhausted she felt, sleep seemed to be far beyond her reach.

There was a gentle stirring at her lap; she glanced down at the little girl curled up beneath the covers, her mop of blonde hair only held by the red tie pulling it back into a tail. Mordred lay silent, her breaths long and slow in her slumber, too afraid to sleep in her own room after her near kidnapping. She had all but begged to sleep with her parents for the past two days – a request Guinevere couldn't even consider refusing.

Scarcely five minutes after Mordred had fallen asleep, however, Arturia crept out of the room, still far too uncomfortable to allow herself to sleep in the same room as the homunculus.

Guinevere hadn't tried to stop her; the days and nights had been trying enough without adding arguments to them.

Besides, she didn't want to wake Mordred.

A moment passed, and Guinevere reached forwards to stroke the girl's head, only for a lance of pain to arc through her hand. She pulled back on reflex, a hiss escaping her lips as she turned her hand over, dreading she'd find blood red seeping through her bandages once again.

She did not; only white linen bandages wrapping around her hands, from her very fingertips to her wrists.

Her wounds hadn't opened.

Relief washed over her in a cascade, a cold shudder running down her spine. She forced herself to breathe deep, closing her eyes and focusing on her racing heartbeat, curling in on herself and wrapping her arms around her sides.

"There's nothing wrong… there's nothing here… you are okay…"

Guinevere wasn't sure how much of the mantra she actually believed, but at the very least, her heartbeat seemed to be slowing. The pain in her palms was fading if only slightly, a pulse of pain piercing through them with each beat.

A slight grunt pulled the Queen from her thoughts; Mordred stirred in her lap again, her serene expression twisting into a grimace. Slowly, the toddler pushed herself up, rubbing at her eyes as she blinked away the bleariness of sleep. She glanced about, confusion, then fear visible in her expression as it registered that she wasn't in her room…

Then she saw Guinevere, sitting with her back against the headboard.

"… Mother?" she asked, hesitant.

"… good morning, Mordred," Guinevere smiled, fighting to keep her exhaustion out of her expression.

It clearly wasn't enough. Whatever relief Mordred felt was quickly drowned by an obvious concern. The Princess crawled forwards, closing the distance between her and her mother, stopping only when she was firmly seated in Guinevere's lap, "… are you okay?"

"Yes," Guinevere said, a little too quickly. She paused briefly, swallowing before speaking again, "… I'm okay, Mordred. Just a little tired."

"… can't sleep?"

"Just…" she paused, unsure of what to say next. After a moment, she finally settled on the truth, "Thinking."

And it really was the truth. She couldn't _stop_ thinking, no matter how hard she tried – about that night, about what would have happened if that monster had successfully taken Mordred. It didn't take much for Guinevere to get caught up in the whirlwind of nightmares, one leading directly into the other. It felt like she was drowning, sucked beneath the black surface of her own dread and terror. What would have happened to Mordred? What would be done to get her back? What would Arturia be willing to do? Would she even care? What if she didn't? And even if she did, what would become of Mordred as they decided what to do? What if she were dead? What if she were twisted? What if she were hurt what if she were what if she what if whatif _whatifWHATIF_ -

"Mother!?"

Mordred's yell snapped Guinevere out of her thoughts. She hadn't even realized that the world had become a mere blur to her eyes. Slowly, everything came back into focus, her heart once again pounding in her ears as colour and solidarity returned to her sight. Mordred was practically right in her face now, having climbed as high up Guinevere's chest as she could manage, the girl's eyes wide with equal parts sadness and fear.

"… I'm sorry, Mordred," Guinevere forced another deep breath into her lungs, slowly letting out once more, "I just…"

She trailed off, unsure of what to say. What reassurance could she offer that wouldn't sound like a lie?

Finally, Guinevere reached forwards, gently wrapping her arms around Mordred's shoulders and pulling her daughter into an embrace. Mordred's arms in turn clamped around Guinevere's chest like a vice, and it was all the Queen could do to hope that the girl didn't hear her still racing heartbeat.

"… I'll be okay, Mordred," Guinevere finally managed, "It's all going to be okay. I promise."

She felt the small shift of Mordred's head – what she could only assume was a stiff nod as the girl hugged her even tighter.

Mother and daughter would stay locked in that embrace even as the unseen sun rose beyond the clouds.

* * *

Guinevere had to reluctantly pry herself away from Mordred when it was time for their embrace to end. As much as they wished to remain in the comfort of their mutual presence, the day had already begun.

She had postponed Mordred's lessons for the day, hoping to give her some form of respite. The Queen had watched as Mordred walked down the halls, devoid of her usual joy and enthusiasm, before making her way to her first destination for the morning.

It wasn't long before she found herself before the door that led to the quarters of the Court Mage.

At Arturia's insistence, Merlin had taken the task of Guinevere's treatment from Camelot's maesters and physicians. Rather than the usual methods of treatment of herbal remedies or, more likely, being sent to a monastery, the Queen had experienced a number of strange treatments under the Court Mage's care. He'd given her a concoction that tasted foul, but was evidently far, far stronger than any drink she'd had before, making her head swim and reducing the stabbing agony in her then bleeding hands to a dull ache.

Beyond that, she remembered he way he took each of her hands, examining the wounds closely as she lay on the cot, whispering words that weren't any language she'd heard before. Within seconds, the bleeding had stopped; she remembered his cleaning of her wounds with a liquid clear like water, but it smelled strongly of alcohol and stung whenever it touched her palms. After that, her memories became a swirl of nonsensical sensations that felt more akin to a dream amidst a fever than anything one could feel during their waking hours.

When Guinevere finally regained her lucidity, she found her hands bound in white bandages, the Mage asleep in his chair off to the side.

She hadn't returned to see him again since. Despite Merlin's antics, despite his attempts to play himself off as friendly and nonchalant, there was always something that felt distinctly… off. Something just wasn't right about the Court Mage, and between his "hobby" of wreaking minor havoc throughout Camelot, his habit of sleeping with every beautiful woman who was willing to share a bed with him, and that sense of wrongness, Guinevere could certainly say she did not enjoy the Mage of Flowers' company.

She was grateful to him for his part in healing her hands. That did not mean she trusted him.

She stood in silence for a moment, biting at her lip. Before she could raise a hand to the heavy rung, however, the door opened. A sweet fragrance wafted into her nose from the spiraling stairwell beyond, like a gentle wind carrying the smell of a field of flowers in full bloom. After a moment, the mildly amused voice of the Mage of Flowers echoed from above.

"Come in, Guinevere."

She only hesitated a second longer before complying, starting up the steps that led up into the tower. Each arrow slit she passed showed her the castle below in her ascent, the stairs taking her higher and higher with each pass; she could have sworn there were no towers this tall in the castle when she looked upon it from elsewhere…

"Magic," she muttered, huffing and redoubling her pace.

When she entered the room, the scent of flowers grew even stronger. It was a large room, easily thirty feet across, and shaped roughly into a hexagon. The room didn't so much have walls and windows as it did have a pillar at each corner of the room supporting the ceiling, light streaming into the chamber from the outside with next to no restriction.

And yet, despite the lack of any real walls, the room was comfortably warm. No wind blew through the gaps, despite the tower's dizzying height (Guinevere made certain to stay well and away from the edges), and there was no sign that the room was even touched by the weather. Bookshelves lined in a somewhat haphazard manner stood immaculate, save for a slight layer of dust on some of the shelves, along with the books themselves, though the Queen couldn't even begin to guess what logic they had been arranged by. A small dip in the floor on the room's west side led to a pit in which a small fire had been constructed, lightly crackling away despite having no immediately apparent source of fuel – no coal or even logs.

Pillows and throw cushions with designs Guinevere had never seen before were scattered throughout the room, along with whatever books were missing from their shelves. A fairly large desk stood at the north side of the room, tools, books, and ingredients of all sorts scattered across its surface. The center of the room, however, was what caught Guinevere's attention; hundreds of pink flowers bloomed in the very center of the room, casting their sweet scent throughout the room.

"… if I was half as good as a gardener as him…" she murmured.

"You probably _are_ a better gardener than me, Guinevere."

The Queen looked up; a series of stones gently drifted down from a small gap in the ceiling, floating down through the air, the first coming to a stop near the floor. Each one was easily two feet long and a foot across, forming yet another staircase to the room above.

Merlin descended across the floating stones as easily as any other stair; he had the same easygoing smile that he always did, his white hooded cloak and hair trailing gently behind him, "Despite the fact that flowers tend to grow around me wherever I go, I'm actually quite terrible at looking after plants."

Guinevere kept her eyes on him as he reached the bottom step, "Merlin."

He gestured towards the many cushions surrounding the fire pit, some of them larger than Guinevere herself, "Please, take a seat."

She would have preferred a chair to a cushion, but Guinevere did not raise the issue, instead sitting down atop one of the larger pillows without comment, sinking into the velveteen surface. Even now, she kept her hands in her lap, not wanting to undo the Mage's work.

Merlin in turn pulled up a pillow of his own, seating himself across Guinevere with his legs crossed. He held out a hand, smiling, "May I?"

The Queen hesitated for a moment, swallowing.

"… I don't have any pranks planned, if that's what's got you worried."

"… No," she said, "It's… it's nothing."

Merlin raised an eyebrow, but made no further comment as Guinevere reached out and gingerly placed her wrists in his palm. He set to work, gently unwrapping the bandages layer by layer.

"How is your side?" he asked.

"… somewhat sore. But it's fine."

"Two of your ribs had been snapped when you were first put in my care," he spoke casually, as though they were discussing the weather rather than the nature of her wounds – she hated how flippant he was about all of this, "Another rib, along with your sternum, had been severely bruised, as well as the muscle around your midsection. That was a pretty nasty kick you took."

She grimaced, "I said it's fine. Whatever you did to heal my side, it worked."

A slight smile this time, "Well, your spirit remains undamaged. That's good."

With that, the last of the bandages came away. Her hands were pale, now – Guinevere had always been fair skinned, but now her hands were a stark white that didn't seem to belong to her, everything from her nails to her wrists like unpainted marble.

She almost didn't want to turn her hands over. She was afraid of the damage she would find – and how could she not be afraid? She had never seen such wounds before herself, but she had heard stories of what could happen. Some knights could never fight again, no longer able to hold their weapons after a cut too deep across the palms or even the backs of their hands. And they had been the lucky ones; more often than not, anything too beaten and battered would need to be removed entirely, lest the wounds fester.

But she couldn't just let this best her.

She let out a breath, trembling slightly as she slowly turned her hands over. Even against the white of her palms, they were as plain as day. The dagger had not just bitten once into her palms; it had been tugged back and forth in her grasp, each push and pull creating new, deeper cuts, back and forth across her palms and fingers in a harsh scribble, like the crests of over a dozen breaking waves. Her former handprint was almost entirely hidden beneath the pattern of the wounds, her once smooth skin now rough with the callouses of ugly scars.

Guinevere stared, the fear condensing into a heavy pit in her stomach. She curled her fingers one by one, pain still lancing its way through the scars as she did so, then let them loosen. Anxiety, fear, relief, it all churned in her stomach in a way that threatened to make her physically ill, but above it all was the uncertainty.

"It seems you've healed, for the most part," Merlin started, gently taking one of the Queen's hands once more, "I take it you're still feeling pain?"

She gave a silent nod, swallowing hard.

"That's good. If you can still move your fingers and you're still feeling pain, it means your nerves have successfully recovered," he glanced up, and gave a faint smile.

Guinevere tried to keep the puzzled look off her face as she looked at him, as this was the first time she'd ever heard of 'nerves' in a context that would relate to one's fingers, but it was obvious she hadn't succeeded; the Mage's smile widened a fraction, and he quickly amended, "Your hands are going to remain sore for several days yet, perhaps even a couple of weeks, but you should have full strength and range of motion in your palms and fingers again. You won't be losing your hands or your ability to use them, Guinevere."

She paused, a newfound sense of relief washing over her, but not completely overcoming the swirl of emotions within. After a long moment, she nodded, "… Thank you, Merlin."

His expression grew a tad serious, "You should still refrain from doing anything too physically strenuous until further notice. I know you don't have many activities that qualify as physically strenuous, but at this stage I would rather not risk it."

She didn't answer this time. She just looked back down at her hands, curling and uncurling her fingers as she tried to process the maelstrom within her. She paid the Mage little heed as he stood.

"That _was_ pretty reckless of you, I have to say," he said, striding over to his desk, "You didn't strike me as the type who would willingly play tug of war with a dagger."

Guinevere raised her head, shooting him a glare, "I couldn't just let that… that _thing_ take Mordred, Merlin."

He didn't turn to face her, but she did catch the cheerful note in his voice, "I wasn't insinuating you would have, Guinevere. I'm just saying that it surprises me, is all; you've always been a rather quiet woman, content to watch from a distance rather than get your hands dirty."

The Queen felt her jaw set at that. She looked away, folding her arms and furrowing her brow, something new once again joining the mix of emotions within; a faintly smoldering frustration.

"Tea?" he asked.

"… no, thank you."

"Suit yourself."

After a moment, he returned to his cushion, steam rising from a cup in his hands. He took a sip of his tea, still smiling, and then met Guinevere's eyes again, "Well, now that your hands have been dealt with, we can move on to the other aspects of your health. How long has it been since you last slept, Guinevere?"

The Queen sighed; she should have figured that this would come up eventually. She bit at her lip, trying to think about how long she had been awake.

"… two days, maybe longer?" she guessed, uncertain.

The Mage took a closer look at her, "Hmm… going from the bags under your eyes, as well as your unsteady gait when you entered, I would say you've been awake for roughly fifty seven hours."

"… that long?" she asked. It felt like she had been awake for far, far longer.

Merlin nodded, "Granted, that's a rough estimate, but I wouldn't go any lower than fifty four. Right now, what you need more than anything else is rest."

Guinevere snorted, "Rest… and how am I supposed to rest knowing that monster is still out there?"

"Afraid that she's going to attack again?"

"How can I not be?"

Merlin smiled, "Well, considering how closely her fight with the King and his Knights came to being her last, I doubt she's going to be taking on Camelot Castle directly again anytime soon. She doesn't strike me as so brazen or foolhardy that she wouldn't learn from her mistakes."

"That doesn't reassure me."

"Hm…"

The Mage took another sip of his tea, his expression scrutinizing. After a moment, he set down his cup, and stood, disappearing into the rows of shelves. After a moment, Merlin returned, struggling not to drop the several bundles that were now in his arms.

He returned to his cushion across from Guinevere, setting down several cloth and parchment wrapped items down before her. He smiled, unwrapping the first bundle, "With any luck, some of these should be enough to help you sleep."

The Queen raised an eyebrow at the sight of a familiar, and very, very common flower – though it had been dried, the arrangement of the petals and the gentle purple hue made it unmistakable, "Lavender?"

"Specifically its aroma," Merlin stated, "Lavender is rather effective at alleviating minor forms of insomnia – keeping fresh lavender in your room should help you once you've recovered a bit more and your sleep problems begin to lessen.

"In the meantime," he unwrapped the second package, exposing a small glass bottle, "This should help you with actually getting to sleep."

Guinevere paused, then reached out, taking the bottle; a thick, opaque, colourless liquid shifted and churned within, moving so slowly that it almost seemed more like tree sap than anything else.

"A sleeping agent concocted from a variety of ingredients – including an opium extract," Merlin spoke, his tone once again taking on a more serious inflection that forced Guinevere to look him in the eyes, "It should be enough to put you to sleep within a few minutes of taking it, and suppress any nightmares you might have – but if you're going to take it, you will need to follow my instructions on how to use it to the letter."

"I don't need…" she trailed off; something in Merlin's gaze sharpened, and Guinevere found that she couldn't finish her protest. After a moment, she swallowed, trying and failing to remove the lump from her throat before speaking once more, "… alright. I'm listening."

"First, absolutely no alcohol past sunset while you are using this concoction," Merlin intoned, "No mead, no beer, no ale, no wine. Mixing alcohol with this sleeping agent could potentially turn it into a poison – worst case scenario, you stop breathing entirely."

The Queen nodded in silent acknowledgement; taking this as permission to continue, the Mage quickly moved on, "Second, no more than a single spoonful of the concoction per night. If you still have nightmares or difficulty getting to sleep, do not take a second dose; come to see me, and we will either adjust your dose or find something else."

Guinevere nodded again, silently allowing the Mage of Flowers to finish.

"… and last, but certainly not least," Merlin sighed, a cheerful note entering his tone once more, "Keep it out of reach of children. I don't think Mordred would be silly enough to drink it – it looks, smells, and tastes absolutely _awful_ – but, well, you never know with toddlers, do you?"

At this, the Queen's expression soured, "Do you honestly think I would keep this where Mordred could find it, Merlin?"

"Not intentionally. But Mordred is a very clever girl, Guinevere – at times, I think she knows more about this castle than most of its soldiers and servants. And I'm sure you know better than anyone else how good she is at defying expectations."

"… I will not argue with that," Guinevere sighed, "Then, to recap – no alcohol after sunset, and no more than a single spoonful regardless of how well it works."

"And make sure that Mordred will not be able to find it," Merlin repeated, "But yes, that is the long and short of it."

Guinevere looked down at the bottle, slowly turning it over; it was just large enough to fill the entirety off her hand, the surface uncannily smooth. Round, with a gently tapered neck plugged with a cork, it was certainly no glasswork that was made in Britain. Nothing she owned, even as a child, had glasswork of this quality; if such existed in Britain, her father would have given it to her.

Just like everything else.

The thought left a bitter echo in her mind, but she paid it no heed. Instead, she sighed, "Alright. I understand. Thank you, Merlin."

"This is the least I could do, My Lady," he said, grabbing his staff and pushing himself to his feet, "Now, I would recommend that the next thing you do is go straight to bed. What you need more than anything else at the moment is rest."

"… I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Hm?" Merlin paused, glancing down at the Queen with an eyebrow cocked, "And why not?"

"Because," the Queen pocketed the lavender and medicine before struggling to her feet, wincing as she pushed off her hands, "There is a Round Table meeting today. And I am not going to miss it."

A heavy pause fell between them as the Mage of Flowers regarded the Queen, his smile falling from his face. Merlin studied her, his amethyst eyes scrutinizing Guinevere's expression; there was resolution in her eyes now, a determination that had not been there in the many years she had been married to Arturia – determination paired with a desire for action.

"… with all due respect, Your Majesty," he started, speaking slowly, "I don't believe that is a very wise decision."

"… and why not?"

"Because you are in no condition to be walking around the castle unattended, much less attend a meeting."

At this, the Queen's eyes narrowed, "Merlin, ever since I married Arturia I have stood by and watched as she shouldered the weight of Britain entirely on her own. And yes," she snapped suddenly, cutting the Mage off as he opened his mouth to interject, "I'm aware she does so of her own volition. Painfully aware, in fact – I know the role I'm intended to fill. The Perfect King's Perfect Queen."

Guinevere all but spat the words out, a sudden anger at the very idea flaring within; her hands clenched into fists, but for the moment, her anger was great enough for her to simply ignore the sharp pain of her aching fingers, of her too-long nails digging into her already pained palms. Still, she kept her gaze even with Merlin's, as though hoping to catch some hint of humanity or remorse in his expression or deep within his purple eyes, "I was brought here for two reasons. The first is to act as Arturia's spouse – to be a figurehead to assuage the doubts of the people and nobility. The other is to bear Arturia's heir. I was never intended to actually act as a ruler – and if Arturia had her way, I never would. Her intentions aside, I'm less than a puppet. I may as well be a doll on display."

The vehemence in her tone was growing, building with the anger; her uncertainty and doubt, her frustration and resentment were kindling to the raging fire as it spread. For a moment, Guinevere forgot all about the pain in her hands, carried by the rising tide of flame, passionate, but focused, "Well… no more. I'm not just going to stand by and pretend nothing is wrong anymore. I am not going to let Arturia shoulder Britain by herself – I don't give a damn what she has to say on the matter. If she honestly wants to continue carrying the burden of this Kingdom all by herself, and keep me out of the decisions, she will need to exile me."

"She will do just that if you force her hand," Merlin mused, "You know as well as I do where Mordred inherited that stubbornness of hers from. Arturia is not going to just let you start acting as a ruler because you've had an epiphany – as you yourself just said, she's bound and determined that Britain is her burden to bear. Besides that, do you honestly believe that you're in any condition to be making decisions as an authority figure?"

"Then what should I do, Merlin!?" Guinevere's tone was rising once more – she was shouting now, leaning forwards with her hands splayed to the sides, "I can't just stand by and watch Arturia break under Britain's weight when there's something I can do! I can't sit in my ivory tower and _pretend_ that there's nothing wrong with that anymore! I _need_ to begin taking steps as Queen of Britain! If not today, if not _this bloody instant,_ then when!?"

Again, Merlin remained quiet, watching Guinevere with his lips drawn in a thin line and his hand on his chin. She gasped for breath, her vehemence still present, but it was no longer acting as fuel; her exhaustion was once again beginning to get to her, her posture growing more unsteady by the second. After a full ten had passed, she stumbled, and then collapsed back onto the cushion.

Nonetheless, she continued to glare up at the Mage, the fire in her eyes refusing to die down despite the clear protests of her rest-starved body. She struggled to push herself back up, but it was more than clear that between the pain and her fatigue, there was no way she would be able to succeed on her own. But still, she tried.

Merlin let out a sigh, closing his violet eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose, pondering what exactly he should do next. When he opened them again, his hand falling away, his expression was something of a grimace, lips twisting in a way that was neither a smile nor a droop – he almost seemed to be bracing himself.

"I was going to say tomorrow," he began, "After you had finally gotten a good night's sleep and a decent breakfast in your stomach…"

The fire in Guinevere's eyes flared again, and she redoubled her efforts to push herself back up…

"… but, you've made it perfectly clear that you're not going to hear anything I have to say on this matter – at least, nothing of that particular regard."

He sat back down, and took the third and final bundle out from his sleeve, and unwrapped it; for a moment, the Queen mistook it for a small block of solid gold. However, closer inspection revealed it to be more akin to honey, thick and viscous, flowing slowly from one end of the tiny glass vial to the other as Merlin shifted it back and forth between his fingers.

"This," he started, "almost never sees any use. It's a very powerful stimulant of my own design – it's intended to force the user into a state of wakefulness, restoring physical energy and full cognitive function for a brief period of time.

"However, it is not a replacement for rest. This dose will be enough to keep you going for the next four hours – after that, your exhaustion will hit you again like a battering ram."

He pulled the cork free, and turned the bottle over; slowly, the golden liquid flowed out of its container and into a second cup of tea, a cup Guinevere hadn't even realized was there. Once the bottle was completely empty, he set it aside, and gave the cup several short stirs, raising it to his face and giving it a brief sniff.

Hesitantly, the Queen reached out to take it with her shaking hands – only for Merlin to shake his head.

"First, I need you to understand – this will only let you attend the meeting. After that, you will need to return to your room as quickly as you can – I don't think it would be befitting of you to fall asleep in the hallways."

Again, he smiled at her, amusement dancing in his eyes, and if Guinevere had the strength, she would have slapped him.

Instead, she swallowed her frustrations, merely nodding in acceptance of his condition.

With that, Merlin handed her the tea, watching as the Queen emptied the cup with a few quick gulps, and then as a disgusted grimace crossed her face, baring her teeth and screwing her eyes shut at the obviously foul taste.

"… you could have warned me that it was going to taste like rancid honey and spoiled milk," she hissed, setting the cup aside.

"That was what the tea was to mitigate," Merlin's smile only seemed to grow, "You know what they say – the best medicines are the most bitter ones."

Guinevere glared at him, snorting, "You're a mage. Can't you find a way to make good medicine not taste so awful?"

"I could," he said, pausing for a moment, letting Guinevere hang on his word. When she finally motioned for Merlin to continue, he closed his eyes, shrugging, "But that would take extra effort that I usually don't want to put into my work."

He was immediately knocked backwards by the impact of the pillow smacking into his face; when he pushed himself back up, pulling the pillow away from his head, Guinevere had already struggled back to her feet, patting her hands on her dress.

"Alright," she said, scooping up the lavender and the glass bottle of narcotics as best as she could with her aching hands, "To the Round Table, then, Merlin?"

The Mage of Flowers' smile remained in place as he rose to his feet once more, gesturing towards the stairs with his staff, "After you, Your Majesty."

With that, the two began the long descent down the spiraling staircase, descending from the tower that floats unseen in the sky high above Camelot Castle.

* * *

The halls were eerily silent on the way to the Round Table meeting. Despite having not slept for two days, Guinevere felt as though she had just fully awoken from a deep, refreshing slumber, her mind clear from the haze of exhaustion. However, on the downside, the lack of haze meant she now had to confront the pain in her hands more directly, and she endeavoured to keep them in fists, though there was no one to hide her scars from – at least, for the moment.

Even Merlin was oddly quiet, though she suspected that was in part because he knew better than to flirt with the Queen of Camelot even on her best days. Gone was his idle chatter and ramblings about things Guinevere either didn't understand or didn't care for. It wasn't that he was in some distant realm of thought so much as he was merely quiet, oddly focused on the events at hand.

Guinevere was content to share the silence.

However, it did not last long.

A furious shout – the words muffled by the ornate doors that led to the Round Table – echoed down the hall, loud enough to cause the guards posted on either side of the door, normally impassive to anything and everything that was not a Round Table Knight or someone of even greater station, to flinch as though physically struck. Normally the Round Table's chamber was enough to muffle all noise within and shrouded from scrying by Merlin himself, ensuring that none could eavesdrop without entering the chamber proper. That someone was shouting loudly enough that they could be heard through the doors, even if the words were unintelligible, meant that they were very cross indeed.

"Gawain, I would say," Merlin muttered, "Even in his best mood, he's a loud man… the events of these past days have riled him up."

Guinevere narrowed her eyes, "Have they already begun?"

"I would assume so. Arthur requested that I give my input in today's meeting, but as I so rarely attend, I believe they saw fit to start without me, knowing I would come when I pleased and no sooner," he smiled, "Not that I blame them. There _is_ much to discuss."

She swallowed, returning her attention to the doors; now that Merlin had identified the voice, she could easily tell that it was Gawain. He fell silent for a moment, as though someone else were speaking, only to resume his tirade seconds later.

"… are you sure you want to do this?"

The Queen sighed, exasperation and frustration in her tone, "How many times must I reaffirm my conviction to you, Merlin?"

"To me?" he shook his head, "None. To them?... this is where you will have to prove your resolve to the Round Table, Guinevere. And, more importantly, to the King; Arthur is not going to be easy for you to sway. If you want to rest and do this another time-"

"No," she cut him off, "No. I _must_ do this today. If I don't, I will never start."

"… very well," the Mage's smile returned, "But a word of advice. Don't accept any help that you are offered today. Not even from Lancelot. You need to stand your ground if you are going to make this work, and put your foot down when necessary – you can't let them override you, no matter how good their intentions are. Even if it hurts, you need to power through your injuries and do things for yourself."

"… today is a day for stoicism in the face of pain and fear…" Guinevere murmured, "… I think I'm starting to understand why Arthur does everything he can to keep his emotions in check. I can't imagine what must be going through his head right now."

"Well, you're going to find out, if you keep to the path you've chosen," Merlin said, crossing his arms, "Do you think you can stand your ground?"

"I did it with you," Guinevere managed a smile of her own, "You're one of the most frustrating people to argue with. I don't think standing my ground against the Knights of the Round Table will be of any true concern."

"You soundly trampled me with your argument in the tower. You barely gave me a chance to argue back, and it quickly became clear you wouldn't listen to anything I had to say. I doubt the Knights will be so wise; but I digress," he stepped up to the doors, his purple eyes meeting the Queen's, "Shall we?"

Guinevere breathed in, then stepped forwards; the guards moved to pull the doors open, but she waved them off, the gesture more than enough to demonstrate that she wished to do this herself.

The Queen gripped each heavy, engraved metal rung, and slowly pulled the doors back. She was surprised by how easily they moved, swinging effortlessly on their hinges despite their sheer size, seeming to have been made with giants in mind rather than humans. Pain still ached in her hands, but she bit down on the whine building in her throat before it could begin.

"-that monster needs to be hunted down _now!_ "

Gawain's voice was deafening without the doors to act as a bulwark; he was standing with his back to Guinevere, but even with his armour and cloak she could see the tension in his stance. There was a foreboding that hung over the conglomeration of Knights, a sense of frustration and dread that intermingled when one was faced with uncertainty; when being proactive could be just as dangerous as doing nothing at all. From the faces that the Queen could see, each Knight was plagued by their own thoughts; the only ones that seemed tranquil by any means were Agravain and, as serene as ever, Arturia.

"Gawain, please," Gareth began, lowering her hand from her temple in a placating gesture, "We don't have enough information-"

"We have all the information we need!" the Knight of the Sun barked, "We know it was sent by Morgana. We know where Morgana is. We need to strike hard, and we need to strike _now_ – _before_ the Witch or her new creations can regroup. It would not surprise me if she is already making her next move!"

"And if she is," Merlin interrupted, strolling casually into the room with his usual smooth gait, "who's to say that attacking her immediately isn't playing directly into her hands, Gawain?"

The entire Round Table snapped to attention at the Mage's voice. His relative calm and ease clashed with the tension in the room, causing it to spike; as always, his nonchalance was not welcome amidst the frustrations of the Round Table meetings. Gawain himself was rounding on Merlin, opening his mouth as though to roar-

-only to stop dead in his tracks as he took in who was accompanying him. He stood, dumbfounded, the anger falling from his expression as he looked upon Guinevere, who met his gaze without so much as a single trace of fear.

"… Your Majesty?" he asked, quiet.

As soon as the words left the Knight of the Sun's mouth, the Knights turned to face her, Merlin all but abandoned by the limelight. What animosity and anger remained among them was quickly wiped away by their shock at the Queen's presence.

"The Queen? Was she sent for?"

"No. From what I hear she hasn't been sleeping well."

"I heard the same. In addition, with her awful wounds…"

Guinevere paid them no heed, resisting the urge to shake her head as though to clear it. Instead, she shut out the rest of the brewing murmurs and started after Merlin, making her way towards the other end of the table.

"Guinevere."

One word was all it took to stop the Queen dead in her tracks. How could she not, with the cold, commanding tone of that voice?

Slowly, she turned to meet Arturia's gaze; the King's teal eyes seemed to peer right into her soul, and for the first time in years, Guinevere had to resist the urge to squirm under that scrutinizing stare.

"… you should be resting," the King stated, as though it were a fact Guinevere had somehow missed.

The Queen took a breath, trying to suppress the shudder that ran down her spine; she refused to let herself tremble. Not here. Not now.

"… I'm here for the meeting."

More ripples of shock amidst the Knights; however, even now, Guinevere could see no tells from her husband. No surprise from the Queen standing her ground, no frustration at being disobeyed – nothing, not even a faint furrow of the brow or twitch of her lips to hint at the thoughts and emotions within. Instead, the King only continued to regard her, "You are in no condition to be here. Your hands aside-"

"My hands are fine," she interrupted, raising them to eye level and opening her fists to show her palms; the King aside, not a single Knight was able to fully contain their reaction to the scars. Lancelot's face went pale at the sight of the jagged scars, his eyes widening and mouth opening in horror at what had been done to the Queen. Gawain gave a visible flinch, looking away before he could stop himself, and Tristan's golden were visible if only for a matter of seconds, his expression of shock and anguish shared by nearly everyone present. Even Agravain couldn't stop his eyes from narrowing at the sight, a small hint of pity breaking through his otherwise impenetrable shell at the sight of the damage.

"… do they not hurt, Your Majesty?" Gareth ventured.

"No," Guinevere said – too quickly, the word coming out clipped. She tried to curl her fingers back into fists, only to wince, cursing herself for making such simple mistakes. Even if the Knights themselves somehow didn't notice the discomfort the Queen was in - and she had no doubt that they did – there was no way Arturia wouldn't.

"Are you certain?" Gareth pressed, "If they are causing you any discomfort-"

"I said they are fine, Ser Gareth. I may have been harmed in the attack three days ago, but I have not been rendered an invalid."

"Be that as it may," Arturia interjected, once again commanding Guinevere's attention, "the fact remains that you have gotten precious little rest these past two nights. You are in no condition to be participating in this meeting."

"Arthur, I-"

"You are neglecting your health. The fact that you are here rather than in bed tells me you are not currently capable-"

"I am not leaving, Arthur."

Silence fell between them and settled over the room. The Knights looked back and forth between the King and Queen of Britain, and it seemed more like a pair of lions were staring each other down than anything else. They weren't accustomed to anyone challenging Arthur, much less his Queen, who always seemed so meek when she made her appearances, as few and far between as they were; this was alien to them, even to Lancelot.

Though her turmoil remained unseen by her Knights, Arturia herself was not accustomed to it either. She continued to regard the Queen, scarcely even seeming to blink as she debated what to do next; just this morning, there had been bags under the Queen's eyes, and she constantly seemed lost on the border of sleep, but unable to actually cross it. And yet, all signs of her former exhaustion seemed to have disappeared entirely, Guinevere's eyes clear and focused, her voice strong and steady, and her posture only barely shifting with her faint winces of pain.

It was obviously the work of Merlin, but even aside from that, this was not the behaviour Arturia had come to expect from Guinevere. With very few exceptions, Guinevere was not someone who sought or reveled in conflict with others. In fact, she was one to avoid conflict in nearly every possible situation, content to remain quiet and unnoticed. She never attended Round Table meetings of her own volition and only appeared at the King's side when summoned. She was the very definition of the term docile.

Though Arturia took no pleasure in the fact, Guinevere's docility was one of the main reasons she had chosen her to be Queen; it was a position that, were it unnecessary, Arturia would never have had filled.

But it was necessary. The role needed to be filled. The King needed a Queen.

And thus, Arturia required someone who would support her – someone who could either cast aside their humanity for the sake of Britain just as she had, or someone who would not interfere, and appear as needed.

So to see Guinevere appear when she had not been sent for was concerning; to have Guinevere outright challenge and disobey her was outright abnormal, completely against the role she was intended to play. What had gotten into her? Just what was she trying to do?...

Finally, Arturia closed her eyes, letting out a long, slow breath.

"… Guinevere," she said, slowly, opening her eyes once more, "If you will not return to your room of your own accord, I will have you escorted out."

The threat was clear and cold – and in fact, was not a threat at all. The authority and willingness to follow through on the declaration was palpable in the King's voice. Queen of Britain or not, Guinevere bore no immunity to the commands of the King.

Guinevere, however, did not show any intention of simply obeying; she did not shrink, she neither hunched her shoulders nor lowered her head in submission. She stood strong, her twinges of pain keeping her from maintaining her normal royal grace, but her head remained raised and her shoulders stayed straight nonetheless, her expression almost seeming to dare her husband to have her removed from the room. It was more than evident she had made her decision.

"Don't you think that's a tad extreme, Arthur?"

The almost musical voice of the Mage of Flowers once again cut through the tension, almost as though he had physically stepped between the King and Queen. He had not yet sat down, and was now making his way back over to Guinevere, standing beside her with his lazy smile directed towards Arturia, "I think I can speak for everyone when I say that no one enjoys watching a lover's quarrel, but are you really going to throw her out to avoid an argument?"

"… what is the meaning of this, Merlin?"

"I am vouching for Guinevere's strength of mind," he raised a hand to Guinevere's shoulder, only for the Queen to smack it away, not desiring Merlin's comfort; to his credit, the Mage did not break his stride, "I evaluated her this morning during my examination of her hands; she is as close to sound in mind and body as she can be, given the circumstances at hand."

"Three days without sleep, Merlin."

"Two and a half, give or take."

"It makes no difference. The fact of the matter remains that Guinevere is physically and mentally exhausted, no matter her claims to the contrary," Arturia folded her hands on the table, "Her presence at the Round Table is not required – and even if it was, she is not in any condition to participate in this meeting."

Merlin sighed, his smile actually fading somewhat, "Arthur. You left Guinevere in my care. You all but ordered me to act as her personal physician as she recovered from her injuries; I am many things, but I am neither careless, nor stupid. Do you really think I would have allowed Guinevere to accompany me here if I didn't believe she was capable of operating during a Round Table meeting?"

Silence fell over the Round Table at this. For a long moment, all Arturia could do was let her gaze flicker back and forth between Guinevere and Merlin, trying to keep her jaw from setting as she tried to decide what to do next. After a moment, she stood, fixing her eyes on the Mage, "Regardless of what you think, you should not have allowed her to come. You cannot honestly expect me to believe that Guinevere has made a full recovery in body and mind in less than three days, especially when I know for a fact that she has seen no sleep – a fact that evidently requires repeating, given the importance of rest and your insistence on ignoring it. Guinevere's presence is not required, and she needs to rest and recover."

Her gaze shifted between them, "I do not know what either of you are trying to do, but I will not have it. Guinevere needs to rest and recover. And you will-"

"Arthur," the Queen interrupted, "I do not need to be lectured on the importance of rest; I'm well aware of how critical it is. But my health is not the point of discussion for this meeting," she took in a breath, trying to square her shoulders, "If you wish to discuss my health and recovery with me, we can do so when we are in private."

The Knights looked to one another as the silent stare-down between the King and Queen resumed; they were stunned by the spectacle before them, by the very prospect of Guinevere openly and actively defying Arthur – and moreover, by Merlin's defence of her. However valiantly Guinevere might argue against the will of her King, it was the Mage that kept the more loyal Knights from reproaching her.

There was a reason the King kept the Mage of Flowers in his service; he offered sound advice and counsel, and his magic was one of the main reasons Camelot castle was considered to be as secure as it was, even with the likes of Morgana lurking in the shadows of the Kingdom. Put simply, however infuriating his presence and demeanor were during his rare appearances at the Round Table, Merlin was not to be dismissed or ignored.

Lancelot was perhaps the only person in the room who had his full attention on Guinevere, his expression pensive. Five years ago, the beautiful, isolated woman that he had fallen in love with, who had hidden her tears of loneliness and neglect behind closed doors had disappeared; her endeavours to raise Mordred as her own daughter had given the Queen new life and joy. She had become someone completely new, still calm and serene, but a new spark had been lit within. Gone were the hollow smiles of a woman who struggled to get through each day as Arthur's bride. In their place were smiles that were full and vibrant and real, and Lancelot had found himself falling in love with her all over again when he realized how much more beautiful she was for it.

But now, there seemed to be another change in Guinevere. During the past two days, during the brief moments Lancelot had been able to spare to see her, she seemed to have regressed, exhausted and terrified out of her mind of the monsters beyond her window shutters – not that he could blame her. She had been wounded worse than most nobles ever were in their entire lives, and had nearly lost her adopted daughter as well; the Knight of the Lake could only imagine how deeply that must have frightened her, how shaken Guinevere must have been – it must have rocked her to her core.

But that was gone, now.

Now, the spark that had disappeared after the homunculus' invasion had returned – and in this moment, it seemed to be growing into a brilliant flame. A flame Arthur could not hope to smother, though he could not help but wonder if that would do more harm to her chances of swaying Arthur than good.

Agravain, however, did not share Lancelot's fascination; when he looked upon Guinevere in this moment, he saw only a delusional, insolent woman making preposterous demands of her King. Arthur's wife or not, Guinevere was still subject to the Kingdom's laws, and by extension, the King's will. Even if the Queen truly knew the first steps of ruling – which he sincerely doubted – the King was correct; she was in no state to rule.

He stood, opening his mouth to add his voice to Arthur's-

"If I may be so bold as to speak on this matter, Your Majesty?"

The voice was not Agravain's.

The Hard Hand drew in a harsh, sharp breath, letting his gaze stray to source; Ser Kay had lifted his gaze to Arthur's, his expression as stern as ever.

For a long moment, Arturia regarded her adopted brother, forcing herself to look into his grey-blue left eye instead of the milky blindness of his right, a jagged scar running down from his forehead down his cheek and almost to his lip. Though it was Merlin who had acted as her initial caretaker and visited her frequently throughout her youth, he had at some point handed her off to be raised by Kay's father, Ser Ector; thus, Arturia and Kay shared their childhood, and for a long time Arturia had believed they were siblings by blood.

Kay was not present the day she drew Caliburn from its stone resting place, but he did accompany Arturia when Merlin returned for her in her teenage years, joining her and the Mage in their forays across Britain. They fought each other perhaps more often than they fought together, and though Arturia knew she was the better swordsman, Kay's arguments always succeeded in making her feel as though she had somehow lost. And yet, through those days at least, their bond never wavered; though Bedivere in many ways was considered her first Knight of the Round Table, it was Kay who was her first and single most constant companion throughout her years.

Despite all this, however, Arturia knew Kay never approved of her view of what a King was. He didn't understand why she needed to turn her heart to steel. Time and time again he had argued with her on the matter, but the days when he could get a rise out of the Pendragon with mere words were long since gone.

As much as it pained her, Arturia closed her heart to his attempts to bring back his adopted sister. The King is what Britain needs, not the girl.

Eventually, his attempts had ceased; Kay had not tried to argue the matter with her for almost ten years. They could hardly call themselves siblings anymore. When Kay offered her counsel, it was frank and strict; he never lost a battle of wits and words against anyone, and his management of Camelot's finances were so masterful that not so much as a single coin went to waste. Regardless of what remained of their friendship and rivalry, Kay was a clever and highly valued Knight of the Round Table.

"… very well. Speak your mind, Ser Kay," Arturia granted.

He stood, looking down at her with narrowed eyes, "I find myself in agreement with the Queen."

Were Arturia less practiced in keeping her mask in place, her eyes would have widened with shock. As it was, she could feel her heart grow heavy with dread; she took only a second to recompose herself before responding, "… elaborate."

"I see no reason for her to be removed from the meeting," he replied, "Given how well she has argued against you, I don't believe there is any sign that her fatigue is affecting her mental capabilities. In addition, Merlin is willing to vouch for her, and I would not dismiss his counsel lightly."

"… the Queen was not sent for, Ser Kay," Agravain stated, eyes narrowed, "I do not believe she has anything of value to contribute to the discussions at hand."

"She has as much right to be here as the rest of us, Ser Agravain," Kay shot back, but not so much as sparing a glance for the Hard Hand. He kept his eyes on the King, "She is, after all, one of Britain's two rulers. I see no reason for her to be treated as a mere figurehead. The Queen wishes to participate, and I see no logic in having her removed. In addition, we need to brief the Court Mage on what has been discussed thus far regardless; it is not as though she will be without context. Thus, I would allow her to stay for the remainder of this meeting – with your permission, of course, Your Majesty."

Arturia's armoured hands slowly clenched into fists at her sides, and she had to make a conscious effort to keep them from clenching too tight, lest the sound of the metal creaking in her grasp give away her spiking turmoil. Dread had turned to a bitter concoction of fear and anger as she stared at Kay, then at Guinevere and Merlin. In all her years as King, none but her enemies had so brazenly defied her – those who challenged her right to rule Britain, as was her right as Uther's son. But now, here she was, facing active defiance from not only the man she once thought of as her brother, but also her Queen and Merlin himself.

They were breaking from their roles.

Briefly, she wondered if they had somehow been conspiring, but she quickly pushed the thought out of her mind; neither Kay nor Guinevere had ever enjoyed Merlin's company, and even if they had, Guinevere had been in no condition to be making plans with anyone. And yet, her initiative was aided by both Ser Kay and the Mage of Flowers, aided in such a way that Arturia could not refuse without appearing unreasonable to her own Knights – not without arguing further. And there was precious little time to argue. Time was of the essence, and every passing second was a second that should have been used to help the Kingdom.

Arturia looked into Guinevere's eyes, and saw once more that she had no intention of backing down. She looked to Merlin, whose gaze was inscrutable as ever, thoughts unknowable. She looked to Kay, whose stern and strict demeanour stood just as strong as her own. And with an effort that was nothing short of herculean, Arturia forced herself to relent.

"… very well," she kept her tone even, refusing to show even a hint of anger or weakness, "If you are truly sound of mind, then I will allow it.

"But I want your word, Guinevere. When the meeting is concluded, you will rest."

The Queen's expression did not change; all she gave was a resolute nod, "I give you my word, Arthur. I will rest as soon as the meeting is finished."

"… do not make me regret this," Arturia stated, and she finally sat back down, prompting Merlin and Guinevere to quickly take to their own positions at the Round Table.

Merlin stood in his usual spot, leaning against the wall between Arturia and Bedivere, while Guinevere, refusing even Lancelot's assistance, dragged the chair reserved for guests or Round Table prospects to Arturia's left side, biting down on every wince and whimper and pointedly ignoring the concerned looks from the gathered Knights. When she finally sat down, it was as though nothing were amiss, hands folded in her lap.

Holding back a sigh of frustration at the display, the King turned her attention to Bedivere, "Ser Bedivere. If you would review the meeting thus far?"

"Gladly, Your Majesty," Bedivere stood, his silver hair falling from his shoulder in its braid. He cleared his throat, raising the record of the meeting thus far for everyone to see.

"We began this meeting with a discussion of the damages and casualties from the attack three nights ago. There were a total of four confirmed casualties, along with one soldier so severely injured it's unlikely he will ever walk again; two additional soldiers have been noted to be missing since the attack, though blood spatters, left-behind equipment, and the overall state of their post suggest that they were killed in action.

"The damage to the wall from the wyvern's arrival was surprisingly minimal. Masons brought in to inspect the stone report that the damage is entirely aesthetic and that replacements are unnecessary for the wall's function; however, discussion as to whether or not we will actually have the stones replaced is yet to be resolved. We need to weigh the importance of the castle's appearance in the eyes of the people against the cost of having new stones brought in from a quarry and properly hewn into shape, as well as the cost of the actual renovations.

"The damage done to the stables, however, was far more severe. The entire structure was set ablaze from within, allowing the flames to spread out of control before anyone noticed; as such, the stables themselves were impossible to save. The remains of the structure will need to be torn down and entirely replaced, which will entail importing wood into the city and having carpenters come in to work on the construction, which Ser Kay again reminded us will be a costly endeavour.

"Thankfully, due to the emergency procedures set in place, Ser Gaheris and Ser Palamedes were able to ensure no further human casualties resulted from the flames, but they were unable to rescue all of the horses. No less than eleven succumbed to the flames, and of those that were rescued, seventeen were so severely burned that it is highly unlikely they will ever ride or work again. As such, most of them were put down."

"Were any of the Knights of the Round's horses affected?" Guinevere asked, and the collective flinch that ran across the Round Table immediately made her regret asking.

Gawain's teeth were bared and slated as he visibly struggled to keep his rising temper under control. He met Guinevere's gaze with a trembling breath of fury, "Gringolet… my horse, Gringolet, was caught in the flames. His hindquarters were burned… currently he can barely limp, much less actually run…!"

"Gawain," Percival said, tone sympathetic, "Do not act as though we do not understand. We know how much you care for Gringolet, and how angry you must be that he has been wounded; were any of our horses harmed in such a manner, we would feel the same. But anger does not excuse recklessness."

"Then what would you have me do, Percival!?" the Knight of the Sun was shouting again, standing up and glaring at the son of Pellinore, "Just stand idly by and let Morgana and her creations do as they please!?"

"No," Percival kept his voice even as his eyes narrowed, "I would have you not respond by riling an army into burning the forests to the ground. Even if you did somehow catch Morgana in the flames, you know it would only cause more harm than good. Do you really think that Morgana hasn't prepared for the eventuality that we would raise an army against her?"

"It's better than sitting here doing nothing!" Gawain snapped, "Look at us! Every bloody time that bitch gets the better of us, we fail to take the initiative! We're all so afraid of falling into another damn trap that we do not even consider attacking Morgana directly!"

"And why do you think that is, Gawain?" Gareth interrupted, "Do you honestly think we would not deal with the root of the problem if it were so easy to deal with Morgana? The Witch is not a fool. Though she has largely retreated from the affairs of the Kingdom, she is still nobility and she still has influence throughout the Kingdom; very few outside of this room are aware of the shadow war she wages against us and even fewer are aware that she is even capable of magic. Much less that she was the student of Merlin himself."

Gareth gestured towards the Mage of Flowers, who smiled, giving Gawain a slight wave; Gawain resisted the urge to pick up his chair and throw it at Merlin, instead focusing his attention on his younger sibling, "Your point, Gareth?"

"That even with Morgana's magic and cunning aside, raising an army to hunt for her would cause an uproar amongst the nobility. As far as they are aware she is merely an eccentric, and revealing the truth of the matter would cause a schism that Morgana would not hesitate to exploit and use to divide Britain against itself. And that's not taking into account the implications of gathering an army in the first place; do you really want to frighten the Kingdom and possibly trigger another nation-wide war?"

Gawain grit his teeth, redoubling his determination, "Even so, it's better than just allowing her to run free! You can't honestly believe that doing nothing is the best option!"

"No, Gawain, we don't," Guinevere spoke, her tone steel, "But neither is acting out in blind anger. You may believe that you are seeing things clearly, but once the fury fades you will realize that what you are spouting is folly."

"Folly!?"

"Yes, folly," Guinevere forced herself to remain calm – on any other day, Gawain's fury might have been enough to have her shrink away and go silent, but now she refused to let that happen. Instead, she kept her eyes forwards and shoulders squared, "Raising an army is a long and taxing affair in and of itself. Do you really believe Morgana would not notice or take action? That she would not attack or flee while we waste time gathering forces for a fruitless endeavour? And I don't need to remind you how difficult it was for you to find Morgana's castle five years ago when you had Merlin's assistance – even if you were to systematically set fire to the entire forest, it would take your army weeks to reach the castle, and by then her cursed forest and her golems will have wiped out almost your entire force. Morgana will either be long gone, or she will slaughter whoever is left. You will have thrown away hundreds, possibly thousands of lives and burned down an entire forest for nothing."

Gawain choked, sputtering as his expression warped; it was obvious he was raking his mind for some sort of counter, but finding none… and it was only frustrating him further. He cursed, slamming his hand into the table, "Fine, then! A smaller group, like the one five years ago! This time, equipped to finish the job rather than simply investigate!"

"That is completely out of the question."

Everyone turned, caught off guard by the voice; Agravain's cold eyes had fixed upon his furious elder sibling, his tone as cold as the King's as he spoke, "Aside from a matter that is yet to be discussed in this meeting – which I believe will require the vigilance of the entire Round Table to address – do you really believe that Morgana will repeat the mistakes she made that allowed your previous excursion to succeed? She will be expecting us to retaliate in some manner, and using the exact same strategy that got the better of her last time is inviting disaster."

"Then what do you suggest-!?"

"Enough," the King's voice silenced the Knight of the Sun; Arthur glanced about the room to ensure he had everyone's attention before continuing, "Now is not the time to discuss our next steps regarding Morgana. There are more immediately pressing matters that require our attention."

"… Your Majesty, with all due respect," Gawain started, struggling to force a level of calm back into his tone.

"Gawain," Guinevere began, her tone softening for the first time since she entered the room. Only when the Knight finally met her gaze did she continue, "I understand why you want to go after Morgana. I don't think there is a single person in this room who doesn't. But you know as anyone else how dangerous she is; manipulation is one of her most beloved tools, and there are few emotions more easily manipulated than rage. The best weapons we have at the moment are unity, calm, and vigilance.

"We do not want to keep you from seeing justice done. We simply do not want to give her more opportunities to inflict more harm than she already has. Please, do not let her get the better of you."

A pause. Gawain stood silent, staring across the table at the Queen as reason warred with fury in the depths of his eyes; slowly, however, reason seemed to be winning. He lowered his head, eyes closing as he let out a deep breath, his shoulders falling beneath his armour and cloak. When he looked at Guinevere once more, his eyes were clear – his fury was by no means abated, but at the very least, it seemed to be under control.

"… Very well. I shall leave the matter be, for now," he lowered himself back into his seat, leaning forwards into the table, "But what of the homunculus? I believe we should at least address the threat that it represents, given the damage it has done."

"That was actually next on the list for today's meeting," Bedivere stated, seeming pleased to have a convenient excuse to move the meeting along. He twisted in his chair, turning to face Merlin, "Have you ascertained how much of a threat Morgana's new operative seems to be, Ser Merlin?"

"Hmmm…" Merlin stroked his chin in faux thought, "Ser Merlin… I'm not often called that… I think I honestly prefer just 'Merlin' though…"

"Merlin," Arturia did not even turn to face him, "Please remain on task. This meeting is of critical importance."

A chuckle, followed by an amused sigh, "In all seriousness, most of what I'm about to say is speculation. But let's start with what we know for sure; the homunculus' capabilities are quite supernatural. She entered the castle through a parapet on the outer wall facing the ocean – and given the fact that there were no wyvern sightings earlier in the day, we can assume she did not fly in. The only assumption I can make is that she climbed the parapet."

There was not a lie to be found in his statement; though Merlin had left out how he'd known about the homunculus from the moment she began climbing the parapet, it was not hard the draw the conclusion of how she had entered.

"Climbed. The wall," Percival asked, eyes narrowed and moustaches twitching with deadpan disbelief, "In full armour. With no climbing gear or apparatus. On a wall facing naught but open ocean."

The Mage smiled, "Whether you believe it or not, Percival, the fact remains that it happened."

"You expect me to believe that this homunculus _swam_ up to the wall in full plate armour, and then scaled the wall – which stands hundreds of feet tall, I will remind you – without any sort of climbing equipment."

"Yes. Though I don't know why you're so doubtful, Percival," Merlin kept his lazy gaze leveled at the son of Pellinore, "Do you honestly believe that Morgana is not capable of creating such a powerful magical soldier? After she created the Green Knight and Mor…" he trailed off, catching the glare that Guinevere was leveling at him, "… more creatures of a similarly despicable nature?"

Percival opened his mouth to retort, then shut it just as quickly; he cursed as quietly as he could manage, knowing that the Mage had a point. After a moment, he sighed, "Very well. Continue."

"Thank you," Merlin nodded, "Now, beyond her incredible strength and seemingly limitless stamina, the homunculus displayed the ability to use something I will refer to as 'Prana Burst' – a technique that involves flaring one's inner magical energy in order to greatly enhance one's physical capabilities far beyond their normal limits. A technique that the King himself is quite familiar with, considering how often he uses it."

Arturia gave no response, merely waiting for Merlin to continue. He gave a slightly disappointed pout at the lack of reaction, but quickly regained his stride, "Prana Burst, in total honesty, is a very simple technique – in fact, it's one of the most basic uses of magical power that there is, if not _the_ most basic. Some might even go so far as to call it primitive. However, its effectiveness both as a tool and as a weapon is marred by one particular flaw; it is a very inefficient use of the internal magical energy known as prana. Most beings capable of magecraft would only be able to use it one time before running out of steam entirely, which makes the technique, simplistic as it is, largely ineffective and by extension very rare. One would need truly incredible amounts of energy in order to use it as an effective battle tactic, such as the heart of a Dragon."

"So you believe our new monster to be part Dragon now?" Kay scoffed.

"No. I don't think she's nearly _that_ powerful, for all her other demonstrations of power and skill," Merlin shook his head, "From what I observed from the homunculus' behaviour, she's still young. She's looking to show off her strength and power, at least in part; she had defined goals and something of a plan, but on the whole she actually seems rather reckless. She was actively seeking out challenges even when she was clearly outmatched – that in mind, she was oddly sparing of her use of Prana Burst, keeping it in reserve as a trump card. I think that if she were truly part Dragon, she would not have been nearly as sparing with it."

"Then what do you believe?" Tristan asked.

Merlin shrugged, "If I honestly had to guess? I would say she's inherited some of Morgana's Fae blood – thus leading to an extremely powerful magical heritage with magic circuits that can produce plenty of prana, combined with the manufactured raw magical capabilities of a homunculus. Not as potent as Morgana's magnum opus, not by a long shot, but not something to be taken lightly either.

"That said, she did not display any knowledge of magecraft beyond a basic understanding of the spell I cast on her – meaning Morgana is either yet to teach her magecraft, or does not intend to do so at all. She was relying entirely on physical prowess and, in the case of her Prana Burst, raw power to win when she fought Arthur, Lancelot and Gawain."

"And a highly unorthodox fighting style," Lancelot added, "I've not seen anyone wield two blades like that. Usually, when one uses a second blade rather than a shield, it's either a shorter sword or a dagger, used to assist in parries and to support the larger sword. That way the blades do not interfere with each other. I've never seen anyone dual wield full size arming swords, much less longswords."

"Furthermore, her mount somehow escaped the snare I constructed with Failnaught," Tristan noted, "I don't know how it did so, but somehow it managed to disperse my arrows and destroy my snare before I could land a killing blow, and then quickly fled beyond the reach of my bow. Is it possible that it has anti-magical properties?"

"It's possible, though I would say it's more likely that its saddle came with some sort of defence mechanism," Merlin shrugged again, "Unfortunately I don't have nearly as much speculation in mind about the wyvern as I do the homunculus. We simply haven't seen enough of what it can do to really draw any conclusions – but I've not heard of a tame wyvern before. It seems Morgana is coming up with more new tricks all the time."

"Which is exactly why I believe being proactive is the better solution – even if we cannot attack Morgana directly, surely something can be done about the homunculus and her pet," Gawain stated, "They will not simply withdraw for more years of preparation – if they do make a move, surely the tracking spell Merlin cast upon the homunculus will allow us to follow it and strike it down before it can wreak any more havoc. Isn't that right?"

A brief silence fell over the Round Table as every pair of eyes turned to Merlin. His previously lazy posture was now somewhat rigid, his smile fading into a thin line and his eyes wide, making it more than clear this was not a question he had been anticipating.

"… isn't that right, Merlin?" Gawain repeated, tone cautious.

"… er… well, no," the Mage finally admitted, bringing his free hand up to the back of his head, expression sheepish, "You see, the spell was not intended to work over a long distance, and even if it was I did not apply any sort of curse to make it self sustaining. It has long since dissipated. I have no idea where the homunculus is at this moment in time."

More silence as an air of general exasperation fell over the Round Table, the expressions of the Knights ranging from annoyance to outright disgust. Gawain in particular had his eyes narrowed, nose wrinkled and mouth open in incredulous disappointment, then slowly lowered his forehead into his palm.

"You are completely useless."

Merlin didn't even try to defend himself this time; he clicked his tongue, then settled back against the wall, "At any rate, there doesn't appear to be anything we can really do about Morgana or her homunculus at this stage. My advice is that the best move going forwards is merely to remain vigilant, and to perform damage control."

Arturia paused for a moment, then gave Merlin a curt nod. Satisfied, the Mage fully relaxed, his small smirk once again playing at his lips.

"Then it's decided," Arturia stated, "For now, we shall focus on containing the fallout of the attack. If knowledge of the attack spreads too far, it will affect Camelot's reputation throughout Britain; the last thing we need is to be seen as weak.

"Ser Bedivere," she inclined her head towards the First Knight, "Have efforts to suppress rumours of the other night been successful?"

"… unfortunately, we have not been able to stop them from spreading, Your Majesty," Bedivere shook his head ruefully, "The rumours seem to follow what we had predicted, both in their nature and in their scope; most of them, initially, seemed to have been spread amidst our military rather than the citizenry, though this has changed over the past few days. Because the attack was confined to the castle and that it took place under the cover of night, the people were unaware that anything had occurred until the following morning. The wyvern's dark colouration and small size compared to, say, an actual Dragon, ensured that it would be very difficult to spot against the night sky, especially at such a high elevation.

"However, that does not mean that the soldiers that witnessed the attack firsthand have not told others what they saw, albeit with varying levels of detail and accuracy – by the time your orders to forbid them from speaking of the matter reached them, it was too late."

If the King was disappointed or displeased with the news, he did not show it. He merely nodded, "I suspected as much. Continue."

"Some of these rumours are wildly inaccurate – some say the castle was attacked by a truly massive Dragon, others describe the invader as larger than even Ser Galehaut," Bedivere stated.

A snort of laughter interrupted him as he opened his mouth to continue, and the entire room turned to stare at Gaheris. When he realized he had become the center of attention, he flushed, struggling to compose himself, clearing his throat as his expression became suitably sheepish, "My apologies… it's just… well, difficult to imagine _anyone_ being taller than Ser Galehaut. The woman is practically a giant."

Lancelot's eyes narrowed, "If that was a jab at Galehaut's parentage, Gaheris…"

"N-Not at all!" Gaheris raised his hands defensively, clearly terrified at causing the Knight of the Lake offense, "I just… Ser Galehaut is easily over twelve feet tall."

"… Very well. But please keep yourself under tighter control," Lancelot relented, his clenched fists relaxing under the table. There were not many things that could so quickly rile the Knight of the Lake, but among those things were insults towards one of his greatest and most trusted friends – the woman formerly known as the Uncrowned King.

Bedivere cleared his throat, exaggerating the sound to regain the Round Table's attention; once he was sure everyone's full focus, he continued as though he had never been interrupted, "The more accurate rumours are ones pertaining to an attack made on the Queen, the attempted kidnapping of Princess Mordred, and that the assassin was capable of facing off with multiple Round Table Knights at the same time. Thankfully, the details of these rumours vary wildly due to the many tellings and retellings, meaning their actual credibility is likely to be considered dubious, but that does not change that there is undeniable proof that _something_ happened at the Castle. The noticeable damage to sections of the inner wall, as well as the plumes of smoke from the stables that lasted well into the following afternoon, have confirmed this, and unfortunately I do not think there is any way we can brush such things off as mere accident or happenstance.

"Worse, given that the rumours have spread from the guard to the people, and the fact that several merchants, craftsmen and travellers of all sorts have come and gone since then, it's very likely that rumours of the attack have already spread to other cities and settlements across Britain," Bedivere looked up from his report, expression grave, "There is a chance we will have to address this directly."

"Indeed," Arturia nodded, "From what you've told me, that is inevitable."

"Will you tell the people the whole truth, Your Majesty?" Gawain asked.

"Perhaps simply coming clean about this affair is the best option," Guinevere added, brightening, "Transparency may be the ideal option in this scenario – perhaps admitting to what truly happened would earn the sympathy of the people, rather than putting on a front of strength for the sake of appearances and reputation."

A ripple of movement and sound shot across the Round Table as the Knights looked to one another; though strength and self reliance were important to the warriors of Britain, so too was honesty and integrity. Lying and misdirection did not come to them easily, even for the sake of the Kingdom.

Agravain promptly got to his feet, speaking loudly, clearly, and coldly, "That is not an option."

The Round Table fell silent. One by one, they turned to face him, Guinevere in particular seeming dejected, frustrated by his denial of her words. Agravain paid her no heed, merely continuing to speak, his tone bordering on condescending, as though the facts of the matter were obvious.

"There are some things that we cannot afford to tell the citizenry," he stated, "Outside of this room, only a select few know of Morgana's true nature, and as Gareth stated earlier, if anyone beyond them were to learn of it, it would cause an uproar amidst the people and the nobility alike. As ideal as full transparency would be, it is a luxury we cannot currently afford."

"Ser Agravain is right," Arturia agreed, and Guinevere had to bite down on a curse, "Unfortunate as it may be, there are some secrets we cannot afford to make common knowledge. As enticing as gaining the empathy of the citizens through the truth of the matter is, the fact remains that the kings and nobility of Britain only respect and respond to one thing – strength.

"Any show of any form of weakness," the King continued, and though she did not turn to face Guinevere, the Queen could feel the words were directed towards her, "will only invite open rebellion. That is not a possibility I am willing to entertain."

There was a pause, the King surveying the Knights one by one. They seemed to have responded to her words – though Agravain's advice was sound, the other Knights rarely responded to it even when they acknowledged its merits, the majority of them joined in their dislike for the Hard Hand of the Round Table. When Arturia took it to heart, though, they quickly fell into line, acknowledging the wisdom however begrudgingly.

But it was not as though Arturia did not understand their misgivings; she despised underhanded tactics and methods every bit as much as they did, be it on the battlefield or at the negotiating table. For better or for worse, she was as much a Knight as she was a King, and though being King required compromising one's moral code for the greater good, being a Knight meant adhering to one's moral code whenever it was possible, even when the easier decision was also the darker one.

She took a breath, and continued, "However, that does not mean we can simply fabricate a story. It does not befit our stations, and we would be defying the very codes we uphold as the Knights of the Round Table, the greatest warriors and lords Britain has to offer. Therefore, as much as possible, we shall stick to the truth – we shall omit crucial details such as Morgana's involvement in this debacle, but we shall not make excuses or beg for assistance or forgiveness. We shall tell the people and the nobility the truth – nothing more, and nothing less. If anyone has any objections, voice them now."

No one spoke; the silence stood as a unanimous agreement.

"Very well. Then we shall prepare to address the rumours within the next fortnight," Arturia sat back down, "Ser Bedivere, was there anything left to discuss?"

"No, Your Majesty," Bedivere smiled, clearly relieved to have the major points of the meeting resolved. He gathered the parchments in his hand and straightened them out, "That was everything."

"No. It was not everything."

Agravain's voice cut through the air like a knife, a harsh contradiction to Bedivere's own words and tone. The Hard Hand had once again stood, looking to Kind Arthur, "Your Majesty. If I may?"

A moment of silence passed before Arthur gave his answer in the form of a curt nod, "Speak, Ser Agravain."

Agravain's gaze swept about the room, briefly hovering over Guinevere as though to question the necessity of her presence before breaking away from her, eyes cold and black as iron, "You are all aware of my recent return from Kent. I have reason to believe that the King of Kent, King Hengest, is guilty of high treason."

Shock exploded across the Round Table like sparks to oil; even Guinevere herself felt her eyes shoot to Arturia, bolt upright and eyes wide with her sudden distress. Was this what Mordred had heard Arturia speaking about with Agravain?

"High treason?" Percival asked, appalled, "Ser Agravain, we are all more than aware that there is no love lost between Hengest and King Arthur, but this is a very serious accusation. This could potentially lead to war!"

"Ser Percival is right, Agravain," Tristan added, "Surely you are not spreading baseless slander?"

At this, Agravain outright sneered, the anger and disgust more than evident in his tone, "What exactly do you take me for? Some gossiping hen at a ball, spreading meaningless hearsay for the entertainment of coddled princelings and ignorant broodmares?"

It was the uncharacteristic viciousness in Agravain's tone that caused Percival and Lancelot to fall silent. Agravain was known among the Round Table for the iron grip he kept on his emotions; almost never were the inner workings of his mind on display for his peers to see, his mannerisms and behaviour chillingly modeled after the King's.

"Perhaps it would do you good to wait until after I am finished speaking to call my claims into question," Agravain spoke, forcing the cold control back over his tone, posture and expression as he readdressed the Round Table.

"Kent is not a land that is suited to agriculture; it is almost entirely reliant on maintaining lucrative trade in order to keep its coffers filled. Being on the southern coast, it is only natural that this would extend to trade with the mainland, as Britain's small size and harsh climate does not lend itself well to the cultivation of exotics. As such, Kent is something of a gate-keeper for the majority of Britain's imports due to its location, which has allowed the Kingdom to prosper since they essentially decide the price of imported goods, which includes everything from exotic spices and silks to arms, armour and slaves – say what you will about Hengest and his history as one of Vortigern's mercenaries, he is a shrewd man who knows to take advantage of his environs and situation.

"However, during my recent appraisal of Kent's affairs, I found evidence to suggest that Kent has been making a series of large and sudden exports to the mainland. According to the merchants that regularly cross the channel, they were recently sworn to secrecy concerning this series of exports by their employers – they were told to take the delivery to the mainland and ask no questions."

"And?" Gawain asked, impatiently glowering at his younger brother, "Where Kent sends its goods is no business of ours, Agravain."

"It is when those goods are comprised largely of arms and armour, Gawain."

That got the Knight of the Sun's attention. His posture straightened as he looked the Hard Hand in the eye, brow furrowed, "… you believe Kent is supporting a foreign campaign?"

"It is the most logical conclusion I can draw," Agravain stated, "Unfortunately, when I approached King Hengest on the matter, he reacted less than amicably. He declared that there were no such exports made, and refused to show me any recent record of their exports or imports. I suspect that were I not a Knight of the Round Table he'd have thrown me out of Kent entirely, or worse."

"It is possible Hengest is merely unaware of these exports," Percival speculated, "From what I remember, he has never taken well to insults. He may have merely perceived your actions as a slight."

"Unlikely," This time it was King Arthur himself who spoke, fingers once again steepled with his elbows on the table, "I will remind you that Hengest and his brother Horsa came to this country to help Vortigern keep the crown. When his brother was killed and it became clear that Vortigern was going mad, Hengest approached me and offered his services as a general and warrior in exchange for a small Kingdom of his own, albeit under my rule. He spent the rest of the war working to prove his merit and his word – a man like that knows better than to just let his temper run wild."

"All that being said, we cannot simply begin an investigation based on Hengest's behaviour alone, especially not in the light of recent events," Bedivere turned to Agravain, "Ser Agravain, do you have any substantial proof of Hengest committing treason?"

The Hard Hand let out a harsh breath, reaching into his cloak and pulling forth the ledger he had shown to the King, tossing it to Bedivere, "This is a record I put together of everything the merchants mentioned during questioning, though I doubt it is complete."

Bedivere shook his head as he took the parchment, adding it to the stack of papers he had already prepared, "It's not enough. The words of mere merchants, regardless of their involvement with this, will never be able to overturn the words of a King, much less if this ledger is incomplete – even beyond that, the fact of the matter is that Hengest can claim you merely drew this up on the spot if we tried to use it against him since it isn't an official record. We will need something more concrete if we wish to pursue an investigation."

"Perhaps we could make an official request to see the records?" Guinevere asked, tone tentative, "Surely Hengest can't refuse an order from the Round Table itself, or even King Arthur."

"On what grounds?" Agravain shot, "Hengest already refused me and disregarded my authority on the grounds of his status as a ruler. If we merely return with the same request from a higher authority he will take the opportunity to paint us as paranoid, taking the claims of common merchants over the words of a King and general who has served loyally since the Twelve Wars."

"W-Well…" Guinevere stammered, then breathed, recomposing herself, "Perhaps we could turn the game against him, in a way. You said yourself, Agravain, that Kent is one of the most prosperous holds in Britain due its position and its role in fair trade with the mainland. Surely, the records should be available for inspection by the Round Table at any time? Why would Hengest try to hide something that plays such a large role in the prosperity of Britain as a whole?"

"… that _is_ actually a viable excuse to perform an inspection," Lancelot stated, smiling at the Queen with no small amount of pride; even the Hard Hand himself seemed to have gone quiet at the proposal, "Of course, we would likely need to wait for a more opportune moment, make it seem more a matter of routine than something that was prompted by suspicion-"

"Which is something we do not have time for," Agravain snapped, cutting off the Knight of the Lake, "The longer we wait, the greater the chances are that Hengest will have tampered with his records to ensure there is no evidence of his exports, if he has not done so already. Beyond that, an official request will allow him time to prepare a sufficiently altered manifest of all the imports and exports as to not arouse suspicion."

"So we either push forwards and risk our reputation further, or we allow Hengest to do as he wishes with no consequences," Kay sighed, rubbing at his brow, "… these are the days when I miss merely travelling Britain, as opposed to ruling it as a Lord."

"… perhaps," Bedivere began, "This is a matter best left for another meeting. As it is, we have already discussed several topics that will all require special attention over the next few meetings before we begin taking action – ideally, a meeting for each individual issue. It may be best for us to simply adjourn this meeting here, rest on what we have learned and discussed, and make our decisions with a fresh mind over the next few days."

"… very well. It seems that we have at least partially covered everything I wanted to discuss at this meeting," Arthur nodded.

"Wait," Guinevere interjected, standing up abruptly, "Wait. There's one more thing I want to talk about before we disperse."

"… and that is, Guinevere?" Arturia asked.

"… what about Mordred?" the Queen inquired, "What are we going to do about her?"

"The Queen raises a fair point," Lancelot noted, "Whatever the purpose of the attack was, it's evident that the Princess is indeed a target – we can't very well just rely on normal guards to protect her anymore."

"Then what would you suggest?" Gawain had a sardonic smile on his face, tone exasperated, "Have a Knight of the Round Table guarding her at all times?"

There was a moment of quiet as the suggestion hung in the air.

"… it does seem like a reasonable solution," Tristan rubbed his chin, expression thoughtful, "After all, there are always at least four or five Round Table Knights present at Camelot, if not more. Surely it wouldn't be too much trouble to spare one of those number to guard the Princess?

Gawain had turned almost white with shock, staring at Tristan incredulously, "… I was joking…"

"Well, evidently it wasn't a very good joke, Gawain," Merlin piped up smugly, speaking for the first time in quite a while, "Sorry to shoot down your aspirations to be a jester, but you'd be better off remaining a Knight."

"Y-You can't seriously be considering this," Gawain stood, eyes shooting wildly across the table to the other Knights, most of whom were obviously pondering the benefits to such a solution, "The Knights of the Round Table have more important things to do than _babysit_ children! We have our own holds and lands to attend to and all manner of deadly beasts to slay, not to mention the affairs of Camelot Castle itself-!"

"Gawain," Percival interrupted, "I fail to see how you consider protecting Mordred to be a low priority task in comparison to defending a hold or slaying a Dragon."

"The Princess," Gawain hissed the words, "is in one of the most heavily defended fortresses in the known world! There is no reason that she should need a personal bodyguard-!"

"And you just said it yourself," Percival cut Gawain off again, his stare harsh, "Mordred is the _Princess of Britannia._ Regardless of the opinions of _some_ of us who sit at this table that believe otherwise, Mordred is the _future of Britain itself_."

His words seemed to echo throughout the chamber as his eyes swept about the Knights present. Gawain grit his teeth, his face flushing red with anger; Agravain's brow creased, eyes narrowing at the son of Pellinore.

Even Arturia had to keep her posture rigid to hide the tensing of her shoulders and the sudden tremble in her hands as she stared at Percival. Mordred?... the homunculus, made to slay the King, to slay her, was to be Britain's future?...

"… I personally can see no greater duty – or honour – than safeguarding the future of our nation," Percival declared, "Camelot almost failed in protecting that future once. If assigning a Round Table Knight to her defense at all times will ensure the Princess' safety, I see no reason to not take that precaution. And if no one else will do so, then I will volunteer to do it myself."

Guinevere was smiling, hands clasped together in a way that suggested that she would have applauded if she could. The remaining Knights were all beginning to show their own signs of approval and agreement, offering smiles and nods of their own.

"… you cannot look after the Princess by yourself, Percival," Agravain countered coldly, "You have other duties to attend to – Gawain is correct in that regard."

"Then we shall rotate," Gareth offered, "Not including the King, there are eleven of us in total – four or five of us present at Camelot, again, at the minimum. It would not be difficult to have us trade the position on a daily basis – designated days based on whom is present."

"Then I suppose the only things left to settle are whom begins, and how exactly we shall rotate," Lancelot said.

"And exactly how we shall do it," Palamedes reminded the Knight of the Lake, "As much import as her defense may have, it would do no good to smother the girl. She needs to live her life, and beyond that, I do not believe it would do us any good to simply follow her idly."

"… Your Majesty?" Bedivere asked, tone uncertain, "What do you think?"

There was a pause, and then the slow release of a breath, "So long as you all accomplish your tasks regardless. I will not have my Kingdom grind to a halt out of concern for… it."

"… it shall be done, Your Majesty," Lancelot decreed, his fellow Knights quickly offering quiet sounds of affirmative, "We shall not fall behind in our tasks. We only ask that this matter be discussed in further detail along with the others."

A curt nod, "Very well. Then this meeting is adjourned. We shall discuss the details of our next steps over the next few days."

* * *

The Knights filed out of the room slowly, each going their separate ways throughout the castle to resume their duties; beyond the few and far between windows and the endless curtain of grey, the sun was drifting down towards the edge of the endless western seas, the sky already taking on hues of deep orange.

This was obscured from the lingering Lancelot, however, who only bore witness to the darkening clouds. Despite the early hour, the grey was already giving way to a mottled purple akin to a bruise; the nights were coming earlier and earlier once more, a fact that always put the Knight of the Lake on edge.

Now, however, it haunted him. Despite the foolishness of such thoughts, he could not help but equate the darkening days of the coming winter, a mere fact of nature and the world, with the dark times that he feared were coming. Even though the first snows were yet to fall and that the harvests were yet to truly begin, Lancelot already found himself wishing for the winter to end.

"Dark times ahead," he whispered, bringing a hand to his face and rubbing his eyes, "To think I once thought times would be simpler when the Wars ended... if anything, trying to avoid bloodshed has made things more complicated..."

"Well… good day and good tidings to you as well, Ser Lancelot."

Jolted from his musings, Lancelot broke away from the window to look to the familiar voice. Guinevere stood before him, a tired smile on her face with her hands hidden behind her back.

"… Your Majesty," his sigh was one of relief, "Forgive me. I was lost in thought."

"… understandably so, given what awaits us," she murmured, smile fading for a brief moment before she forced it back across her face, "… walk with me?"

"Gladly," Lancelot met the Queen's smile with one of his own, offering her his arm.

To his surprise, however, Guinevere shook her head, "With all due respect, I would prefer to use my own strength while I can."

Lancelot frowned as they started down the corridor, confused, "While you can?"

"Merlin," Guinevere said, raising a closed, pale hand to rub at her eye, "He… gave me a concoction to help me stay awake… I don't know how much longer it will last."

"Ah. I see. You _were_ unusually lively for someone who has gone days without sleep, Your Majesty."

"I admit, part of that was the anger talking."

"Anger at the King?"

"In part. Mostly, though, I suppose I was angry at myself."

"Yourself?" Lancelot almost sputtered, turning to look down at Guinevere in his shock, "Whatever for, My La-… Your Majesty? You performed admirably during the meeting!"

"Yes… but…" she glanced up at him, her smile slipping from her lips entirely, "… don't you think I should have started doing this earlier?..."

"'This' being…?" he trailed off, waiting for her elaboration.

"… acting like a Queen, instead of just… living like one," Guinevere looked down at the cold golden band around her finger – one of the only gifts Arturia had ever given her, and even then only for the sake of their marriage, "Acting like a proper ruler. Taking some of the weight off of Arthur's shoulders. Taking responsibility instead of… wasting away in an ivory tower."

"… I admit, I am not sure how to answer that question, My Lady," Lancelot admitted, running a hand through his indigo locks. His tone had grown more somber, purple eyes downcast, "You may believe that things would be better if you had… but I am not convinced that would be so. Especially considering Arthur's general temperament. He may not have allowed you to do so, and may yet attempt to prevent you from going further."

"… I know," she sighed, crossing her arms, wincing at the small stabs of pain through her hands – pain Lancelot hated himself for being unable to prevent or take away, "I just… I feel like I haven't been doing enough. Like I've played the figurehead for too long. I don't… I don't want to be that anymore."

"You wish to be more than a symbol."

"… yes."

"… I understand," after looking briefly over his shoulder, Lancelot reached out and wrapped a comforting arm around Guinevere's shoulder, "It's difficult enough for me, knowing that I am the standard every Knight holds themselves to throughout the Kingdom. A different context, but it is an important role, one I am unsure at times as to whether or not I deserve – and yours is more important still."

"The Perfect Queen for the Perfect King," she spat the words out with a tired venom, "All I have to do is smile and look the part when Arthur needs me for it…"

It was a grievance Lancelot had heard many times over the years since he had met Guinevere – and yet, he had never heard her speak of it with the utter contempt that she did now. Grief, tears, even impotent anger at times – but never this sort of bitterness and utter loathing.

She took in a shaky breath, and slowly exhaled, "… I want to change that, Lancelot. I know it's not what Arthur married me for – but even beyond my conscience, even beyond watching him break himself trying to care for this Kingdom… I don't think I can handle the misery anymore. I _have_ to do something, even if that means going against his ideals."

Lancelot came to a halt, his eyes soft and warm and solemn with understanding. When Guinevere turned to face him, he slowly drew her into a gentle embrace, his cloak wrapping around her shoulders, "Whatever your decision is, My Lady, I will stand by it. You have my sword."

The rest went unsaid; it couldn't be said, and even this gesture of care and support, if seen by anyone, had the potential to cause a scandal that would go down throughout history.

But thankfully, it didn't need to be said.

Nonetheless, Guinevere gave a rueful smile, "Even if that means going against the King?"

Lancelot drew away, almost wincing at the question – it was obvious he had no desire to choose between his King and his Queen. After a moment, he sighed, "… all I can do is pray it does not come to that."

Her smile did not fade, but neither did its subtle sorrow. The two simply stood in silence for a long moment, the Lady and her Knight.

"… and what of you, Ser Lancelot?" Guinevere asked, "Is it too much to hope your tidings have been better than mine?"

At this, his expression fell, far, far more than it already had. His eyes fell shut, and the breath he let out couldn't even be called a sigh; it was much too heavy, plagued by guilt and indecision.

"… I've been receiving letters from my son as of late."

"Your son?" Guinevere asked, her concern rising; it had taken Lancelot months for him to finally tell her about his bastard child, in large part because of the circumstances under which the child had been conceived. The Queen reached up to cup his cheek, tone soft with worry, "Has something happened?"

"… no. He simply… he wants to see his father. He's already six years old and I have not seen him in over five years," his hand covered hers, grateful for her comfort, "I grew up without a father, Guinevere. The Lady of the Lake raised me – I know what it's like wondering who one's father is, and what they were like, but never so much as seeing them as the years go by. I know now that my father was killed when I was but an infant, but that doesn't make what I did not know as a boy weigh any less. I don't want my son to grow up without a father."

"… perhaps I could convince Arthur to-"

"Guinevere."

The Knight and his Queen came to a sudden halt at the cold voice; they turned, and there stood the King, expression impassive as ever.

Arturia studied her Queen, her eyes tracing every line and contour of Guinevere's face. The vulnerability Guinevere had been showing to Lancelot was quickly cloaked by the same fire and resolve that had taken her in the meeting, bracing herself for the inevitable confrontation with the King – but rather than preparing to be lectured, Arturia could tell from her expression and her very posture that Guinevere was preparing to argue.

'Breaking from her role…' the King of Knights thought once more, though she pushed it aside. She wasn't sure what was causing this sudden shift in behaviour in Guinevere, but it was obvious that it would not be stamped out; moreover, as things stood Arturia had neither the time or the patience to deal with, from what she could tell, what amounted to a mere temper tantrum.

Their conversation would have to wait. For now, Arturia simply needed Guinevere to keep her word.

"… you promised me that after the meeting, you would go and rest," she stated.

"… I did," Guinevere acknowledged, nodding.

"Then go. As you yourself just said, there's no telling when Merlin's concoction will wear off. It would not do for someone to find you unconscious in the halls."

Guinevere stiffened, then looked away, cursing faintly under her breath as Lancelot's face paled, the both of them realizing they had been overheard. Rather than pressing the matter, however, she simply bowed, knowing no good would come of fighting the King further at this moment, "Very well. I take my leave."

Before the Queen could turn around to leave, Arturia spoke again, "Guinevere."

"Yes?" she raised her head, looking the King in the eye, unaware of how much such a simple action troubled her husband.

"We will speak later."

It was not a request.

The Queen did not dignify Arturia's order with a response. She merely turned around and walked away, shoulders tense, her usual graceful, gliding gait marred by her frustration.

Only when Guinevere rounded the corner and fell out of sight did Lancelot dare speak, "I take it you don't approve of her actions today, Your Majesty?"

"… no. I don't," despite the impassive tone, the words alone seemed to imply the King's frustrated turmoil, "Nor do I approve of the support she received in her outburst – both open and subtle."

The Knight of the Lake flinched at the borderline accusatory declaration, his former melancholy slowly being replaced with dread. Quickly, he bowed, a hand over his chest, "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I did not mean you any offence."

"You're hardly the one who caused me the most offence, Ser Lancelot," Arturia said, turning to the hallway, "Walk with me."

He did as she bid him, walking several paces behind her as she made her way through the castle. He bit at his lip, then finally dared to ask, "… exactly how much of that conversation did you hear, Your Majesty?"

"Enough."

Lancelot did not inquire further, the dread in his heart so great he wondered if the King were merely leading him somewhere secluded so she might turn her sword on him. He quickly banished the thought from his mind, but the emotion would not go away; he found his hand drifting uncomfortably close to his sword… was he truly so frightened?...

"… I would advise you to keep such conversations with Guinevere to the privacy of secluded rooms," Arturia did not stop, maintaining her pace even as Lancelot staggered with shock, "Some might mistake your declarations for treason. You're fortunate it was only I who overheard you."

It took a moment for the dull roar of his heartbeat to withdraw from Lancelot's ears; relief washed over him as his heart slowed, and after a long few moments he let out a shuddering breath, and redoubled his pace to catch up with the King, "… thank you, Your Majesty."

"It is trivial. There are far more important matters at hand, for all of us."

"But we should have a handle on the situation sooner rather than later – as you decreed, we shall be discussing each matter individually over the course of the next week and making our moves from there."

"And yet, Ser Gawain has a point – as things stand, we are being forced to remain passive against the forces that pose the greatest threats to the Kingdom. Sacred swords are of little use in duels of politics."

"Indeed they are," Lancelot let his hand brush against the guard of his sword, "I know the Knights of the Round are often sent forth to put down beasts and threats of all sorts, but at times I cannot help but feel that Arondight is little more than a badge of office, despite its power and significance."

"The primary differing factor from before, Ser Lancelot, is that we are no longer using violence as a first resort to enforce our rule and laws. The days of war are long gone, but the politics were always there."

"… indeed."

"And that is why I need you all sound of mind and body for these coming days – if it is at all possible, we need to prevent another war from breaking loose. But if it is not possible, then I need you all ready and willing to fight – and your help in readying Britain for war," she stopped, turning to face Lancelot once more, "You understand?"

"I do, Your Majesty," Lancelot nodded, "This peace is one we have strived for a long time to attain – and though it is hardly perfect, it is better than the age of warring lords and kings that preceded it."

"Good."

She turned, and resumed her former pace – and Lancelot couldn't help but let his mind wander back to his son.

He felt his lips curl down into a grimace; should he truly take this step, here and now?...

"… if I may, Your Majesty," the Knight of the Lake began, stopping in his tracks, "I have a request to make."

Arturia stopped, turned back to the stalled Knight with a silent stare.

"… I would ask your permission to bring my son to Camelot."

The turmoil in Arturia's heart went unseen beneath her practiced mask. She could already guess why Lancelot was asking this of her, but she waited for him to finish.

"I… I do not want my son to grow up without a father," he explained, "I myself grew up never knowing who my real parents were or even what my name was until I claimed Joyous Guard – it haunted me for so long, and occasionally haunts me still. I do not wish the same for my son – and moreover, I do not feel any reassurance in leaving him in the care of his mother and grandfather."

His tone grew cold at their mention, though Arturia was hardly surprised – Lancelot held no love for the Fisher King, and only pity for the wounded man's daughter, Elaine, "I wish to remove him from their influence, and act as a proper father."

A wave of empathy nearly overwhelmed Arturia, forcing her to work to maintain her emotionless mask. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to grant Lancelot's request, the look on his face alone sending lances of guilt through her heart.

Instead, she faced him squarely, only pausing to compose herself before giving her response.

"No."

A single word of denial – and it was enough to cause more shock and pain to Lancelot than any physical wound. Shock shot through his body like a bolt of lightning as the colour drained from his face, his eyes widening and his posture going ramrod straight for but a moment before his body went slack. He stumbled, stepping forward, then back, struggling to keep his balance and not fall to his knees. Eventually, he settled for putting his weight against the wall, staring at the King with a crushing despair, "… w… why?..."

"… it is unfortunate, Ser Lancelot, but I must deny your request," Arturia kept her tone even, "As I have said, you are Britain's greatest Knight, the Knight all other knights measure themselves against in chivalry and skill. Outside of the Round Table, there are precious few who know of your son, and even fewer who know the exact circumstances behind his conception."

"… b-but… Your Majesty…"

"Lancelot. If your son were to come to Camelot to live in your care without any sort of cover story, it would arouse suspicion. If his heritage were to be revealed it would cause an uproar, and I do not find it likely that the truth of his conception would garner you much sympathy."

"… surely, there is something we can do," Lancelot was grasping at straws now, regaining some of his strength. He pushed away from the wall, "If I were to claim he was adopted-"

"And when do Round Table Knights just go out and adopt orphans, Ser Lancelot?"

The question shut Lancelot's mouth like a steel trap, the Knight of the Lake falling completely silent.

"The abruptness of such an act would be enough to arouse suspicion in and of itself; furthermore, I do not know if your son holds much resemblance to you, Ser Lancelot, but if there is any at all, you _will_ be scrutinized for it," Arturia gestured towards him, "You must see the potential consequences that bringing your son here will have. Even if you were to find a way to bring him here and raise him without damaging your reputation and jeopardizing your role, you would never be able to officially acknowledge him as your child."

Arturia's words seemed to be sinking in; Lancelot had gone from despairing to enraged, but now, he simply looked crestfallen. Outrage was overcome by understanding, but that did not make the decision any easier for him to bear. He lowered his head, his voice small, quiet, "… I understand, Your Majesty."

"... I will take my leave," Arturia said, turning on her heel, "Return to your post."

"… if I cannot bring him here… might I at least have him sent to his Godmother?"

"… you mean Ser Galehaut?" Arturia asked.

"Yes."

"Might I ask why?"

"… if I cannot raise my son myself, Your Majesty," Lancelot's tone was grave, but determined, "then I would at least have him raised by my closest friend and confidante."

She paused, thinking; on the one hand, there was no reason to not have this request granted. Galehaut was beloved by her people, and eccentric enough that they would likely overlook the sudden adoption of a boy from a far off land. In addition, Galehaut was more than likely to offer her aid to Lancelot without question or even the thought of recompense, and such a mighty and honourable warrior was more than likely to raise the same.

Where Arturia found herself apprehensive of the idea, however, was in Galehaut's mindset; ambitious and powerful, the Lord of the Far Isles was a woman whom people flocked to like a beacon – not out of any true desire to serve and be protected by her, but in hopes of making their own ambitions come to fruition.

Galehaut had no respect for any noble or royal bloodline. The only reason she respected King Arthur was because of their strength; she cared not for the Pendragon name or its significance. Furthermore, she granted rewards and positions based entirely on merit; in her eyes, the son of a great noble house was the same as the daughter of a shepherd. She only respected those who reached out for ambitions greater than themselves, and the only reason she stopped her invasion of Britain itself was because of Lancelot. For one reason or another, the Half Giant found herself enamoured with the Knight of the Lake, and agreed to cease her invasion and withdraw her forces in exchange for Lancelot's friendship.

However, Galehaut never surrendered to Arturia, nor did she swear fealty to her; she merely relinquished her hold over Britain's conquered lands in exchange for lordship in a hold within Britain, remaining completely sovereign over her distant islands. Thus far, she had kept her word, but the fact remained that Galehaut was a powerful and dangerous figure who only respected ambition and prowess. Even her reasons for giving up her conquest were rooted in a selfish desire for the companionship of Lancelot.

In essence, Galehaut was the very embodiment of prowess, ambition and greed.

"… you're certain no ill will come of this?" Arturia asked.

"I trust Galehaut with my life, Your Majesty. I would trust her with my very Knighthood."

Arturia said nothing in response, evidently not convinced; Lancelot drew Arondight, and knelt, holding the sword by the blade with both hands and with the hilt extended towards the King, an offering of his sword and Knighthood.

"I swear to you that Galehaut will raise my son as though he were her own. The boy will become great and loyal under her tutelage."

"But loyal to whom?" the King's question was quiet, "To you? To Britain? To Galehaut? Or to himself?"

"… that will be a decision the boy must make for himself," Lancelot conceded, bowing his head even further, "But I swear all this upon my Knighthood – should this decision go awry in the days to come, I shall pay for it with my lands, my titles, my privileges, and my sword. I shall accept all the blame, and take the fall."

"… that is an unnecessary gesture, Ser Lancelot. Return your sword to its sheath," King Arthur said, finally. When Lancelot looked up with a confused expression, she continued, "I do not trust Galehaut. Ally or not, her philosophies and ideals are those of a conqueror's – had she succeeded in conquering Britain, she would not have stopped there. I do not think a day will come when I will not be wary of the Far Isles or their lord.

"But you have found a strong and loyal companion in her nonetheless. If you are truly confident in this course of action, I will allow it."

Lancelot stood, sheathing Arondight once more, "I named my son in honour of Ser Galehaut, Your Majesty – his name is Galahad. For all Galehaut's faults, which I will acknowledge, I would not entrust her with my son if I did not hold her in the utmost esteem and confidence."

Arturia almost smiled at that – almost. It was a struggle to keep her face impassive and tone cold, "That's the first time you've mentioned your son's name… your friendship with Galehaut is truly dear to you, isn't it?"

"It is. More than almost anything else."

"Very well then. I will leave the composition of the letters to you," Arturia turned, "Bring them to me when they are complete, and I will mark them with the royal seal – not even the Fisher King can refuse me without provoking Britain. You are dismissed."

"I shall take my leave, Your Majesty."

With that, the two parted ways, and beyond the walls, the starless night began for Camelot Castle.

* * *

Guinevere resisted the urge to break into a run as she stalked through the halls. She could feel the heat of anger in her stomach like the bloom of the red flower known as flame, winding her up like a spring – she could feel the tension in her shoulders, arms swinging mechanically at her sides and her mind clouded over with frustrated thoughts of the King.

Arturia was as obstinate as ever, and Guinevere wasn't sure why she was even surprised. The King of Knights would likely starve herself if she were somehow convinced it would ensure Britain's safety, and she would not be convinced otherwise no matter how much pain it put her in.

Well, if she was going to be stubborn, then so was Guinevere; when they talked, Arturia was going to find that the Queen had decided to dig in her heels.

Nonetheless, she couldn't very well have that argument if she was on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion. Arturia was right about one thing, at least. Guinevere needed rest, and soon. Already, she could feel the telltale signs that her stimulant was wearing off. Her limbs were growing heavy, and it felt like the entire front half of her head had been replaced with a leaden weight, making the very act of thinking an endeavour all its own.

But she wanted to see Mordred before giving in to her need for sleep.

She wound through the halls, and with some effort finally made it to Mordred's room. Taking a breath, she called out, "Mordred?"

No response. Guinevere waited a few seconds before reaching out and knocking once, wincing at the resulting pain, "Mordred, are you in there?"

Still, no answer. The door was yet to be replaced, the piercing gouge left by the homunculus' sword allowing cold grey light to spill through; there was no way Guinevere wouldn't have been heard.

She pushed the door open, slowly creeping in and sweeping the room with her eyes, "Mordred?"

There was no sign that the toddler had even been here; a slight layer of dust covered almost everything in the room, from the books to the bed sheets to the mirror. Mordred's favourite hairbrush was missing, Guinevere having taken it from the room since Mordred had begged to sleep with her mother and father. Though most of the room had been put back in its proper place and cleaned, there was still some evidence of the Queen's attempt to protect her daughter; cracked wood on the bed, some chips taken out of the stone walls. The fireplace was cold and empty, leaving the room with an unusual chill that was absent from nearly the rest of the castle.

Guinevere paused, then sighed.

"Of course she wouldn't be here…" she murmured, "She's too frightened to come back."

She swept back out and closed the door, beginning the search for her adopted daughter.

Mordred wasn't in any of her usual hiding spots; the telltale pitter-patter of her boots against the stone floor as she ran was tellingly absent from the halls, as was the clatter of her wooden sword as she dragged it along behind her, the squeals of joy and laughter replaced with a solemn silence. Wherever she was, Mordred had lost the uncontainable sparking joy she'd held just a few days ago.

Finally, Guinevere was forced to give up. She didn't have time to search every possible inch of the castle, and her efforts today would be ruined if she were caught asleep in the halls; undoubtedly, Arturia would use it as an excuse to write her off as incapable of caring for herself, much less Britain.

Returning to her quarters, she opened the door… only to find Mordred curled on the bed, her sniffling interrupted only by hiccupping sounds that took Guinevere a second too long to register as quiet sobs.

"… Mordred?"

She didn't turn over. If anything, she only drew herself in tighter into a ball, whimpering, almost mewling like a wounded cat. As Guinevere drew closer, she could see Mordred had wrapped herself around her wooden blade, clinging to it like a security blanket.

"Mordred… are you okay?"

Mordred jerked, as though only now registering her mother's presence; she uncurled and sat up, hastily wiping her face on her sleeve, though it did precious little to hide that she had been crying. Her cheeks were wet with tears, flecks of spittle and snot dotted her lips and chin, and her eyes… her eyes were still wet, having grown red and puffy from what was likely hours of crying. She clung to her sword with her free hand, the wood splintered and cracked where the homunculus had grabbed it, chips present where it had hit the wall when it was thrown aside – cracked and nearly outright broken, almost as though it were a reflection of Mordred's spirit.

Even so, the girl's jaw tightened and her whimpering ceased; she did not fall completely silent, but the Princess was obviously struggling to stop crying, though why, Guinevere could not be sure.

"… oh, Mordred…" Guinevere whispered, her own eyes welling up as her heart let loose an internal cry of sorrow. She moved to sit down beside the girl, gently pulling her into a hug.

Mordred simply sat, limp, neither pulling away, nor drawing further into the embrace. Even now, she struggled to silence what remained of her sobs and gasps for breath.

"Mordred… did something happen?"

There was an attempt at a response, but it was choked by her muffled cries; instead, the Princess simply shook her head, golden locks tangled and knotted in a haphazard mess from laying on the bed for so long.

It was becoming more and more obvious to Guinevere that whatever it was that upset Mordred, she wasn't ready to talk about it. Gently pulling away slightly, but keeping an arm wrapped around her daughter's shoulders, Guinevere spoke gently, warmly, "… I'm right here whenever you want to talk about it. It's okay… I'm right here."

It was now that Mordred finally reciprocated the hug, wrapping her arms around her mother and pressing herself into the folds of the Queen's dress. She trembled as her tiny fists clenched as hard as they could onto the red silk, as though Mordred were trying so hard to steady herself that the effort was instead making things worse.

"… you can let it out," Guinevere assured, "Let it all out… no good ever comes from locking your sadness away."

Mordred's only response was to tighten her hug around her mother's waist, her total silence continuing to reign for a long while as Guinevere continued to stroke her hair, whispering the same soft assurances. The sting of her hands was all but completely forgotten by the Queen – her priority was her daughter.

Even so, the thought of her creeping exhaustion would not leave her be. Guinevere didn't know how much longer she had left; she feared she might collapse before Mordred could work up the will to speak.

Nonetheless, she would not force the girl; Mordred needed to emerge from her shell on her own. Forcing the issue would only make things worse.

"… I…"

Guinevere went quiet as Mordred struggled to speak, her voice hoarse and as unsteady as the rest of her. The toddler pulled away slightly, rubbing her eyes to clear away the remaining tears before looking up at her mother, lip trembling and eyes still filled with unfathomable fear.

"… I was scared," she managed, "I… I'm scared, Mother… I'm scared…"

"… is it the attack?" Guinevere asked, already knowing the answer.

A nod, "It… it hurt you… the monster… I… I didn't know… I didn't know what to do…" her hands clenched again, "… I'm not strong … not strong… I couldn't protect you…"

"… you shouldn't have to protect me, Mordred," Guinevere brushed aside Mordred's bangs, "You shouldn't have to protect anyone. Not now. Camelot is the safest place for us in all of Britain."

"… is it?..." Mordred asked numbly, "… the monster still got in…"

"… we've gotten used to peace. We grew… complacent; we let our guard down because no one thought that anyone would actually attack Camelot. We know better now. There is no safer place in the world, Mordred – I promise."

"… I still couldn't protect you," Mordred's voice quivered as she lowered her head, her former steadiness falling away with every word as she fought to keep the tears back, the words less clear with each passing second, "It hurt you… I couldn't stop it… 'm sorry… 'm so sorry… please don'… please don' hate me…"

Shock ripped through Guinevere's heart as quickly and painfully as a sword – followed immediately by horror and greater sorrow. Before she could even think, she was pulling Mordred back into a full hug, her tone gentle, but stern, "Mordred… why would you think I hate you? I could _never_ hate you. I love you so, so much…"

"It wan'ed me!" Mordred wailed, burying her face against her mother once again, "It wan'ed me and you were hur' pro'ec'ing me! I'… i's my faul'!"

'… "It's my fault,"' the Queen's blood ran cold as the realization settled in, Mordred now openly and uncontrollably sobbing. Any attempt to hold back had been swept away entirely by the emotions flooding forth from the proverbial broken dam, the toddler clinging to her mother with absolutely everything she had.

"… you've been blaming yourself," Guinevere managed, the conclusion nothing short of mortifying, "Oh, Mordred…"

She gently lifted her daughter off the bed and into her lap, running her hand through the tangled golden locks as she whispered into Mordred's ear, "Sshh… I'm here… it's okay, I'm right here…"

It was utter torment, listening to the wracking cries and sobs of the girl as they held each other in their embrace; Guinevere holding Mordred in a gentle hug, Mordred gripping her mother as though afraid she would disappear into thin air. All the Queen could do was continue to whisper comforts into the Princess' ear, uncertain if she was even heard amidst the wailing. Eventually, Mordred began to calm once more, no longer able to so much as try to reign herself in.

"… Mordred," Guinevere began once the cries had subsided to small burbles and hiccups for breath, "I need you to listen to me. Please?"

A pause, and then a nod.

"What happened was in no way your fault. You were targeted, yes, and people were hurt – but that is in absolutely no way your doing," Guinevere tightened her hug, her own voice beginning to tremble, "Please… don't blame yourself for what happened. You are as much a victim as I was… and I could never bring myself to hate you. Whatever I did to make you think that I could… I am so, so sorry."

Mordred sniffled, then pulled away to look her mother in the eye. Tears were now streaming down the woman's cheeks – a display of fear and sorrow to match the child's. Mother and daughter, both weeping, both afraid…

She lowered her head, "… some Knigh'…"

"Hm?"

"… how'm I going to be a Knight of the Roun', Mother?" her words coming out more clearly now that she was calming down again, Mordred looked forlornly at her wooden sword. She reached out, and grabbed its still too large hilt, pulling it over for her mother to see, "… Knights protec' people… they're never afraid… I can' be a Knight like Father if I can' protec' you…"

"… you're four years old, Mordred," Guinevere assured her, "You're much too young to be comparing yourself to any Knight – much less the Knights of the Round Table, especially your father."

"But… I…"

A pause; Mordred was clearly struggling to find the words she wanted, frowning slightly and biting her lip in concentration as she wracked her young brain for how to express herself in the limited ways that she could.

Guinevere took the opportunity to speak instead, tilting Mordred's head to look up at her, "And as for Knights never being afraid… I think you would be very surprised."

"… well… maybe badder Knights, but… but not Knights of the Round Table…"

Guinevere couldn't help but smile, however faintly, "'Badder' is not a word, Mordred. But however much they might act like they aren't afraid, however much they would have people believe they do not fear anything… they are still human. They are all still afraid."

"… all of them?" Mordred's tone was one of quiet surprise.

"All of them. And that includes your father."

"… Father… was afraid?..." the mere idea contradicted the entire image of the King Mordred had in her head; ever stoic, always working to protect the Kingdom and make it a safer, kinder place to live in, her father seemed utterly fearless in her eyes. How could he have possibly been afraid that night? What was he afraid of?

"There are not many things that can scare him, Mordred. But there are some things – and few as they are, those things terrify him greatly."

"… the monster?" Mordred asked, tentative.

Guinevere shook her head, "No. I sincerely doubt your father was actually scared of that… thing, Mordred. But he was afraid that night, more afraid than I have seen him in a very long time."

"… but if not the monster, then… what?"

"... of losing you."

Mordred blinked, obviously confused. She tilted her head, "Losing… me?"

"No matter how cold he may seem, Mordred… your father does love you. I'm sure of it. When he learned that you were being taken away by that monster, he quickly and personally led a force to prevent it, even though he could have easily left the task in the hands of Lancelot or Gawain or Gareth or even Merlin," Guinevere forced a smile, though it felt empty – she knew Arturia simply didn't want Morgana to get Mordred back.

She wanted to believe what she was telling Mordred now; a small part of the Queen truly did… but the words still rang hollow in her heart of hearts.

Nonetheless, she kept going, "There are not many things the King attends to personally, Mordred. That he came to your rescue speaks wonders of how much he cares about you – of how much he doesn't want to lose you. The idea of you being kidnapped terrified him – so he fought to prevent that from happening."

Mordred sat, wide-eyed and stunned by what she was hearing. It was hard to envision her father being afraid of anything… but to think he was so frightened of losing her… that he had dropped everything and rallied his soldiers specifically to save her…

She couldn't stop the slight smile that curled upwards on her lips, a feeling akin to relief and subtle joy blooming in her stomach like a wildflower; she knew it was wrong to be pleased that father had been so frightened, but… it was reassuring to know how much he cared for her.

"I see much of the same in you, Mordred," Guinevere stated, "You have your father's compassion… and his incredible bravery."

"… but how can I be brave when I'm scared?" Mordred asked, "Isn't bravery not being afraid?"

"No," Guinevere corrected, "I'm not entirely sure where you got that idea, but one must be afraid in order to be brave. Being brave is being afraid, but doing the right thing anyways. Someone who isn't afraid is simply indifferent – or foolish."

Mordred blinked, "So… Gawain is a fool?"

The Queen didn't even try to stifle her chuckle, "I suppose you could say that, though there have been plenty of times when even that gorilla of a man was afraid."

"… so bravery is being scared, but doing it anyways?"

"That's it exactly, Mordred."

"Mmm…" Mordred paused, then nodded, at the very least thinking she understood what her mother was trying to tell her. She thought back to the night of the attack, however, and felt her fear and regret return, "… I still don't think I was very brave that night…"

"You were braver than most fully fledged Knights that night," Guinevere insisted, tone stern, but encouraging, pulling her daughter into a hug once more, "You _saved my life,_ Mordred. You stood up to a warrior homunculus with nothing but a wooden sword. And you did it even though you were just a scared toddler – not out of a desire to prove yourself, but because you saw I was in danger and did everything you could to help. How could anyone consider that any thing less than true bravery?"

As the Queen held her daughter in an embrace once more, she silently begged any God, Christian, Celtic or otherwise that could hear her thoughts in this moment that Mordred would understand; she wanted more than anything in this moment for the girl to comprehend the lessons her mother was trying to teach her, and to take them to heart. Even if Mordred could not become the Knight she dreamed of being someday, the damnable laws set in stone as they were, Guinevere wanted her to recognize what courage she had mustered that night, and to carry it for the rest of her days. She was reassured by the feeling of Mordred's small arms returning the embrace, and there they sat, the silence no longer one of sorrow, but of mutual comfort.

Only after the moment passed did Guinevere pull away, gently laying a kiss on Mordred's forehead.

"… Mother?"

"Yes?"

"… do you…" Mordred looked up at her, eyes shining with a question that desperately required an answer. This was a moment of truth for the girl, one that Guinevere couldn't afford to take lightly.

"… I'm listening, Mordred," Guinevere assured, stroking the back of the Princess' head.

"… do you think… I could become a Knight?"

The Queen could not help but falter at the question, smile slipping slightly. As much as she wanted to encourage her daughter, Guinevere could not bring herself to lie; the law simply did not allow for women to become Knights. This was the reason Arturia had to hide her gender from the world – the Kingdom would not accept a woman as a Knight, much less a woman as their King.

But even beyond that, King Arthur's word was law – Arturia could potentially overturn the rule for a specific exception, but unless she somehow grew fond of the Princess, the dream may as well have been as far out of Mordred's reach as the stars.

'No' was the only true answer Guinevere could give.

And yet…

The look Mordred was giving her was one that bordered on desperation – the look of a child trying to keep the flames of her dreams burning, looking to her mother for the reassurance she needed to keep the fire from being snuffed out.

Guinevere gently ruffled Mordred's hair, forcing her smile back into place. She didn't truly believe that the girl would cling to her dreams of Knighthood forever – but the Queen couldn't bring herself to crush and scatter the embers. Not like Arturia undoubtedly would have, if Mordred had dared to ask her father.

"I think," she began, "That you will be able to do anything you set your mind to, Mordred. If this is what you can do now… I cannot wait to see what you will be able to do when you're a grownup."

Mordred's response came not in words, but in an embrace that was more like a tackle than anything else. The impact nearly knocked her mother flat on her back, and Mordred's sudden, relieved laughter was joined by Guinevere's surprised chuckles.

As the laughter calmed, however, Mordred's face once again became pensive as she looked down at her cracked wooden blade.

"Mordred?"

"… what about my sword?" she asked, reaching out to grab the hilt and haphazardly pull it over. She frowned as she looked it over, running both hands across its surface, "It got broken when the ho… homim… hominimim…"

"Homunculus," Guinevere corrected, gently taking the sword into her hands to inspect it herself.

Mordred nodded vigorously, her former energy returning, standing up to look her mother in the eye, bouncing in place, "Yeah! Big dumb meanie monster broke my sword!"

"Hmm… well, it isn't something I can fix. I'm more of a seamstress; I'm hopeless with working wood," Guinevere glanced at Mordred, placing a hand on the bouncing girl's shoulder to steady her, chiding, "No jumping on the bed, Mordred."

"… sorry…"

The Queen chuckled again, holding the sword up, "But just because I can't fix it doesn't mean I can't find someone who can. Tomorrow I'll take it to the best woodcarvers in Camelot to have it restored – and if they can't do it, I'll make Merlin himself fix it. Would you be okay with going without your sword for a day so it can be fixed?"

Mordred nodded, running a hand along the wooden face, "It needs to be fixed – I need to treat my blade with respect. If I treat my blade with respect, it'll never betray me."

"You still remember what the old man at the fair told you?" Guinevere asked, surprised.

"Mmhm!"

"Well then," Guinevere set the sword aside, "I'll take it to have it fixed as soon as I can-"

It was not an external force that cut Guinevere off; no, the force was very much an internal one. She swayed, her sense of balance suddenly completely gone as a fog flooded her head, so dense it was more akin to smog than anything else. Her vision went double as her eyes unfocused, the world going blurry, and she threw her hands out to steady herself… and her eyelids started growing heavy.

"Mother?" Mordred asked, tiny hands gripping her shoulder in an attempt to steady her, "What's wrong?"

"… like a… battering ram," Guinevere managed, bringing a hand to her temple and forcing her eyes back open, "… Merlin was… wasn't joking…"

"Mother?"

"'m fine, Mordred," she slurred, the exhaustion of a full three days catching up to her all at once, "I jus… jus' tired… way… way past my bedtime…"

She did her best to push herself into a more comfortable position, aligning herself with the bed. It becomes harder to move with every passing second, muscles heavy and only barely responsive; Mordred, bless her, saw what she was trying to do, and did her best to help, lifting each leg as best as she could and pulling them in line with the bed.

"… how do I tuck you in?" Mordred asked, "You're on top of the blanket."

"Leave it…" Guinevere managed, "I'll be… jus' fine… like this…"

She really should at least try to change into something better suited for sleep – a nightgown at least – but on the other hand, she's too tired to even bother. She'd likely fall asleep before she could start taking off her dress.

"Mother?"

"Mm?"

"… can I… stay with you tonight?... I wanna keep the bad dreams away."

"… 'd like that…" Guinevere smiled, blindly groping with her hands until she wrapped a hand around the Princess' shoulder; she pulled the girl close, "… keep th' dreams 'way… m' little Knight…"

"… I will," Mordred was quick to return the embrace, "I promise… I'll keep everything bad away from you."

"… g'd… love you… Mordred… love you so much…"

Those were the last words Guinevere managed before sleep took her.

"… I love you too, Mother."

Mordred only wriggled out of the embrace for a moment to reach for her wooden sword, before happily snuggling back into her mother's grasp. For that moment, at least, for the Queen and her Princess… all was right in the world.

* * *

Despite her best efforts to make herself otherwise, there were still some aspects of the flawed mortal coil Arturia could never hope to cast away. Among those aspects, and first and foremost among them at this particular moment, was exhaustion.

The day had been a trying one, to say the least. The general overview meeting had been concluded, breaking up the tasks ahead so she could decide how to handle each of them one at a time; but with so many things on the go on top of the already labour intensive task of deciding how much of each harvest was to be sent to the cities, the King was already dreading the days to come.

But first things first – she needed to check on Guinevere, and then rest herself.

Quietly as she could, she pushed the door open; the fireplace had burnt down to mere coals, evidently having been left untended for some time. Likewise, the candles had gone out, giving the room a faint chill to accompany the dwindling fire.

Sighing, Arturia set aside her cloak and removed her crown, kneeling to stoke the flames with a few more logs. Before long, the flames came back to life, reinvigorated by her efforts. Satisfied, she stood, and looked to the bed.

Her heart nearly skipped a beat when she saw the homunculus laying in her wife's arms.

"… still here, I see…"

Arturia wasn't sure why she was surprised – the homunculus had begged and pleaded with the Queen to let it sleep with them, and she hadn't been able to find an adequate reason to contradict Guinevere when she had accepted. For all the scolding the King had given the Queen earlier for her lack of rest, Arturia knew she was not one to talk; these past few nights, what precious sleep she'd gotten was in the chair of her office.

The fact that she was doing everything she could to avoid a toddler, even forgoing sleep, was not lost on her. She should only count herself grateful that Merlin was not teasing her for being frightened of a four year old.

But Arturia was not afraid of it – merely cautious. How could she not be, facing a weapon made to destroy her and everything she held dear, everything she worked and fought and killed to create?

Nonetheless, she approached, doing her best to keep herself silent as the grave. The dim orange glow illuminated the faces of both the bed's occupants, and thankfully, Guinevere seemed to be sleeping soundly. Her breaths were slow and even, rising and falling to the slow rhythm of her dreams – dreams that, if her smile was any indication, were far more pleasant than the nightmare she had suffered mere days ago.

The homunculus seemed just as calm – a far cry from the nights of constant whimpers and tearful slumber amidst nightmares. In fact, it seemed almost serene, a smile matching Guinevere's set in its expression.

They seemed almost truly like mother and child.

But it was something Guinevere could never truly have; she could play at being a mother all she wanted, but play was all it would ever be. She was not, and never would be this thing's mother.

If a weapon could even have a mother in the first place…

Arturia shook her head, letting out a slight sigh before catching a glimpse of the burnished wooden blade, still in the homunculus' tiny hands; word of its desire to become a Knight had indeed reached the King's ears, words that did nothing to set her at ease. Where the others saw a girl playing with impossible dreams, she saw the beginnings of a very real danger – if the homunculus ever learned how to properly fight, to channel the immense power and potential within…

... no. It would not happen. If it was truly merely a childish dream, then a dream it would remain. She would not take that chance, not with something this dangerous.

"… mmm…"

Arturia froze, eyes darting to the homunculus as it began to stir. It stretched, wriggled, then went still, contented smile still in place.

"… gonna…" it murmured, "… gonna… protect… everyone… gonna… be a… Knight…"

It tossed, turned as best it could, held still in Guinevere's arms, and then settled down once more, "… Knight… just like… Father…"

And with that, the homunculus went silent, quiet breaths resuming.

'Just like Father…'

"… just like me?..."

The thought that the homunculus truly idolized her in such a fervent, unyielding manner… it disturbed the King on a level she couldn't even hope to describe. How could a weapon idolize anything? How could the homunculus, made by such hateful hands through such despicable means, feel anything for her but utter enmity?... how could she react to all those moments of love, joy, and sadness if they were all _real?_...

She shook herself from the thought; it would do her no good to reconsider her thoughts for the homunculus now. Child or not, real or not, it was still a weapon, and there was no doubt in Arturia's mind that someday the thing would act on that. She had drawn her conclusions, and would maintain her distance as she always had.

She sighed again, then began working to get the covers out from underneath the pair.

"Really now," a voice rang out throughout the room with a bitter chuckle, "How do you expect to be just like me when you don't even tuck yourself in?"

Arturia went ramrod rigid, eyes wide and exhaustion forgotten.

She abandoned the bed, turning on her heel, eyes sweeping the room for the intruder.

"Who's there?" she demanded, tone ice as she gripped the hilt of her sword.

Silence.

"Who's there?" she demanded again, voice low and her grip on Excalibur tightening, "Show yourself!"

She received no response.

She breathed, steel ringing out as she slowly drew her sword. She thought back to the voice, back to where she'd heard it from, how it had sounded-

…

… no.

No, that couldn't be right…

… but it was.

That had been _her_ voice.

Her own voice had said those words, so full of affection and warmth…

Arturia's mind ground to a halt, the realization so jarring that her fingers loosened and Excalibur nearly fell from her grasp. For an instant, however brief, she had lost the iron grip she kept on her heart and soul, and she wouldn't have even been aware of it had she not spoken.

And with her control gone, with the steel withdrawn from her heart, she had gone beyond dropping her guard around the slumbering homunculus.

She had outright shown it _affection_.

Her breaths became ragged with the sudden tide of roiling venom in her stomach, a toxic concoction of confusion and fear. How? How had this happened? She hadn't lost her control like this in four years, not even when she was alone - the Perfect King needed to be in control at all times, no matter what - and even on that fateful night the circumstances had been so extreme she doubted even a true machine could have maintained an even temper.

Her gaze once again swept the room, this time with far less control, more emotion – no one present, no one watching, the only other occupants of the room sound asleep.

Sound asleep.

Her eyes fixed on the homunculus once more, silent and unaware of the King's distress. Its lips were curled into a slight smile of genuine joy – almost as though in reaction to the warmth Arturia had shown it mere seconds prior.

The sight caused the pieces of the puzzle to click abruptly together for the King. The homunculus was the connection. This… _thing_ was the link between this occasion and the last time she had lost control.

She took an unsteady step towards it. Then another, staring down at that face, at that near perfect reflection of her own youth, at that smile that she couldn't afford to believe was harmless no matter how much others or even brief bouts of emotion tried to persuade her that it was.

Her hands shaking, Arturia found herself at a complete loss as to what to do next. She could only continue to stare.

"… why?" she managed, her voice coming out as a hoarse croak, "Why?... why, of all things, is it _you_ that makes me lose control?..."

She didn't receive an answer.

She didn't know why she had been expecting one.

It took her three tries to slide Excalibur back into its sheath, so bad was the trembling of her hands. She staggered back over to where she had set her crown, only to nearly knock it to the floor, catching it by the edge right before it could hit the stone.

As soon as it was firmly in her grasp, she fled from the room, not stopping for anything. The halls were empty of guards and maids; she made her way back to her study in the dark, completely by memory. She threw the door open, and slammed it shut, putting the crossbar in place and backing away from the door.

She stared at her reflection in the polished gold of the crown, heavy in her grasp, heavier even than her sword with the burdens and duties it represented. Her reflection stared back, impassive.

"… I know who I am," she spoke, struggling to get her voice and her breathing back under control, "I know _what_ I am. I know what I have to be."

A final, shaky breath as she raised the crown to her brow… and all at once, the trembling stopped.

Little more than a façade, but for now, it would do.

She couldn't afford to lose control.

Arturia wouldn't allow this to happen again.

She would turn her heart to steel.

It wasn't a matter of whether she wanted to. She _needed_ to do it.

All for the good of her nation.

All for the good of Britannia.

* * *

The stew was only just starting to simmer within the pot when the mighty bellow of the wyvern cut through the evening's silence. Looking up from her task, Morgana spotted Morrigan's pet just as the great winged form soared overhead, gliding through the air with a grace greatly at odds with its immense size. If there was any lingering pain from the damage either of them had received from their foray into Camelot, the Witch couldn't see it from here.

A few moments passed as the wyvern glided above the canopy, then with several beats of its wings, took to the sky at great speed in preparation for the next set of aerial maneuvers. Even from so far away, it was clear Morrigan was pushing her pet to its limits, not wasting a moment of their training session together. The wyvern plunged into a steep dive before banking hard to the right, executing a near flawless spin as if to avoid ballista fire, weaving in between the two towers. Before, such an attempt would have resulted in a crash landing and several days of recovery for both homunculus and beast. Now, the two had mastered the maneuver that they could pull it off in a heartbeat with fear of neither misstep nor mistake.

Marzia, as Morrigan had christened her, was truly an impressive beast. There had been several risks taken in implementing her magic in order to prepare it for the battles ahead. Age acceleration to give the hatchling, a mere week younger than Morrigan herself, the full grown body of an adult; reinforcement spells to harden her scales further to protect against the sacred swords of the Knights of the Round Table; and some minor additions to sharpen the creature's already keen eyesight and sense of smell.

All of these spells ran the risk of crippling the wyvern, if not killing it outright. Even if they didn't, there were still the concerns of an infant wyvern quickly and painfully growing into the form of a fully-fledged adult, a form that would only continue to grow in size and strength. There had been a very real risk that her magic might drive the wyvern insane in the process, and force her to put it out of its misery lest its rampage destroy yet more of her already crumbling castle.

However, this concern quickly proved to be unfounded. From the moment it imprinted on Morrigan, Marzia performed far beyond the Witch's expectations. It adapted to its magic-induced transformations largely without issue, bonded with her homunculus as if truly seeing her as its mother, and mastered its ability to fly, hunt and fight both alone and in tandem with a rider in almost no time at all.

As far as Morgana was aware, there was no real way to train or practice riding atop a wyvern. Any records of anyone successfully taming one either hadn't survived or were too well hidden for even the Witch to find; the closest things she had managed to dig up were records of the harness Bellerophon used to ride the mighty winged horse Pegasus, and the chariot that had been pulled by Dragons, owned by the Witch of Colchis herself. Though not perfect, they had given her enough to build upon, and the final results seemed to be performing admirably, allowing Morrigan to ride without inhibiting the movement of the wyvern even in the slightest.

Of course, there was room for improvement – there is no such thing as something that is truly perfect – but rider and wyvern had attuned to each other in a manner that seemed to be beyond the limits of master and pet. Which brought Morgana back to their flight, Morrigan and Marzia working as one, growing every closer to a true mastery of the skies.

However, there was something different about this particular flight, on closer inspection; there was a rigidity to the maneuvers, a tension that was not there previously, visibly hampering the pair's shared aerial dexterity. Something was affecting Morrigan's focus, causing her to buckle down on the training in a manner that hindered more than it helped, which in turn was bleeding into Marzia's normally graceful flight.

There was no doubt in Morgana's mind what was causing it. If there was one thing Morrigan inherited from her, it was her borderline obsessive perfectionism – and by extension, her distinct distaste for the flavour of failure.

A shame. The Witch had hoped the homunculus had managed to puzzle out the true purpose of her invasion of Camelot, but it seemed she was too preoccupied with her inability to retrieve Mordred to consider any ulterior motive to the attack.

It seemed that a detailed explanation may be required after all.

It was nearly an hour later that Morrigan finally deemed their training for the day complete. Abruptly as a lightning strike in a cloudless sky, Marzia stopped, wings flaring out to halt its momentum on the spot. The wyvern was gasping for breath, tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth as it panted, likely to cool overtaxed lungs, but even so it kept its wing-beats strong and even to maintain its position high above the ground – proof of the beast's great stamina. Once it regained its bearings, the wyvern began its descent into the courtyard, each wing-beat sending down a gust of wind that kicked up plumes of dust and dead leaves that rose up into the sky above. Finally, Marzia touched down, heavily falling to all fours and then into a crouch, resting its chin on the ground as Morrigan undid the harness and pulled herself out of the saddle, sliding down the wyvern's flank. She paused to kneel beside Marzia, wrapping her arms around the crown of horns and whispering gently, gently enough that Morgana couldn't hear what she was saying – though it wasn't hard to guess.

Once Marzia had regained its breath and pulled itself to its feet again, Morrigan pulled away, silently stalking across the courtyard.

The Witch had only a few minutes of silence before the homunculus pulled open the kitchen door, motions tightly controlled as to not simply wrench the iron rung from the wood, or the door itself off its hinges. Morrigan's armour had been repaired since her last battle, a replacement mask of the same design and material mounted in place, concealing her eyes and most of her scowl.

But even if she was wearing a full helm, it could not hide her emotions from Morgana. The chaos of her turbulent, twisting, directionless fury was palpable even to the blind, the deaf, and the mentally incapacitated, even as Morrigan stood at attention, awaiting her judgment.

"Have you finally calmed down, Morrigan?"

The red visor of the mask seemed to flicker for a moment, wounded pride and anger burning, then cooled just as quickly, "Yes…"

"Then remove your mask. Dinner is almost ready."

The homunculus did not move; the clicks of metal that accompanied Morrigan's ever tightening fists were not lost on Morgana, nor was their tremble of tightly contained anger.

The Witch felt her own eyes narrow, her smile slipping slightly, "Morrigan. Did you not hear me the first time?"

"… the mask… helps me reign myself in."

"… why did I give the mask to you?" Morgana asked, tone cold, smile disappearing.

"It is a tool. To protect my eyes, to keep others from recognizing my true nature, and to enhance my vision."

"Exactly," the Witch's tone was one of scorn now, crossing her arms, "I gave you that mask for an express purpose – and it is _not_ so that you could cling to it like a security blanket. If you honestly have so little self-discipline that you need it to keep yourself under control, then you do not deserve it."

Morrigan's jaw visibly tightened with every word of scolding, mouth pulling further and further back until she was practically bearing her teeth. She stood for a long moment, silent, entire body tense with emotion, and for a moment it seemed as though the homunculus might be foolish enough to disobey.

But finally, the fingers of her right fist uncurled; she reached up with her trembling hand, gripping the edge of the mask, and pulling it free as gently as she could manage. Her golden eyes had narrowed into a glare as she set the article on the countertop, the white pupils burning like a pair of raging stars.

Morgana felt her smile return, stepping forward and raising a hand to the homunculus' forehead, gently brushing aside her bangs. She saw Morrigan's clenched fists twitch, as though itching to strike the Witch's hand away, but they stayed fixed in place by the rider's sides.

This time, Morgana couldn't hold back her chuckle, "Good girl," she pulled her hand back, returning to the stove, "Now sit down; the stew is better while it's still hot."

The meal that followed was one eaten in silence. With winter approaching, Morgana was shifting her focus to meals that were easy to prepare even in the face of nigh empty larders, saving ingredients that had previously been used such as vegetables or even scraps of fat and bone to be used again – hence the stew. It certainly wasn't her best work, but then, winter meals were no one's best work; palatable was the best anyone could hope for when trying to outlast the long, brutal winters of Britain.

If Morrigan noted or even cared about the relative blandness of the meal, she did not show it. She ate as quickly as the manners Morgana had drilled into her would permit, and grew more and more rigid as time passed, arms digging into the table – no doubt they would leave behind marks. Even now she remained silent, not pressing for the answers she so desperately wanted.

Morgana set down her utensils, tenting her fingers over the now empty bowl and waiting for Morrigan to finish; once the homunculus emptied her bowl of the remaining broth, the Witch asked, "Would you like a second helping?"

"No. I've had enough."

"No…?"

"… no, thank you," Morrigan corrected through clenched teeth.

"Better," Morgana said lightly, tapping her index fingers. After a moment's pause, she changed her bearing, pushing her bowl off to the side and leaning forwards on the table, "Morrigan. Do you know why I sent you to Camelot?"

Morrigan's eyes closed as she bit her lip; she'd been expecting this, but clearly had not been looking forwards to it. Finally, she sighed, "To retrieve your first homunculus."

"Incorrect."

Her eyes snapped open, shock clear in her expression… then Morrigan bared her teeth, growling, "You gave me orders, mother. You _ordered_ me to retrieve your homunculus."

"Yes," Morgana spoke, "That _is_ the order I gave you. But that was not the ultimate goal of your invasion."

"What then?"

"You haven't been able to guess?"

"No. I have not."

"It was your first foray into the world beyond this castle. Do you truly have no inkling as to its true purposes?"

"I don't have the patience for these cryptic riddles, mother."

"Hm…" Morgana tilted her head, her smile slipping slightly with her disappointment, "I suppose not. I had hoped you would have had at least one idea as to why I had sent you out. It seems you've fixated so strongly on your inability to carry out your orders that it's blinded you to the bigger picture.

"No matter. We shall hone your critical thinking later – for now, I shall tell you the purpose of your excursion the other night."

Morgana stood, returning to the stove and stoking the small fire within. Once satisfied with its size and intensity, the Witch began to gather the herbs, "Tea, Morrigan?"

"… no, thank you. I dislike it."

"Very well," she poured the water into the kettle and hung it over the fire, returning to her herbs with a mortar and pestle, "The reason I sent you out that night was not to retrieve Mordred. It would have been exceptionally ideal if you had somehow managed to pull it off, but it was also a hugely unrealistic expectation for you to succeed. In fact, I'm impressed that you came as close to success as you did."

There was silence for a long few moments – silence long enough that Morgana looked up from her work to meet Morrigan's eyes. They were wide open, shifting from one corner of her eye to the next, mouth slightly open as the Homunculus processed the non-too-subtle implications of the Witch's words.

The chair crashed to the floor as Morrigan shot to her feet, hands slamming into the table and fingers digging into the wood as she finally slotted the most important piece of the puzzle into place.

"You _expected_ me to fail!?"

To a lesser mage, the homunculus' outburst of fury and wounded pride would have been terrifying. Morgana knew more than a few stories where magi died at the hands of their own misused and mistreated creations, often begging for mercy, unable to control the beings they had brought life to.

But Morgana was no lesser mage. The Witch narrowed her eyes, smile fading almost in warning as she held Morrigan's gaze.

"Of _course_ I expected you to fail," she said, returning her attention to the fine powder in the mortar, "Use your head, Morrigan. Had it been any lesser fortress, you would have painted its brickwork with the blood of its garrison. You've proven yourself a very capable warrior.

"But Camelot? Did you honestly expect to succeed on your first foray into the single largest and most well defended castle in all of Britain – a foray you made _alone_ , I might add - with no less than _seven_ members of the Round Table present at the time, including dear Arturia?"

Morrigan continued to glare at her, the fury in her posture so great that her armour was shaking with her trembling form. But after a moment, the trembling ceased; her expression softened, her vehemence died, and her expression shifted from anger to understanding.

"… Seven…" she whispered, as though only now did she comprehend how close she had come to death upon those ramparts.

"Seven," Morgana repeated, "Not including Merlin, who was the very root of your failure. With the Round Table Knights present, retrieving Mordred was a borderline impossible operation. With Merlin, it was a mission doomed to failure from the moment it began. That you returned alive is more than proof of your worth."

"… I still don't understand," the homunculus started, "If the intention of the mission was not to retrieve your homunculus, then… then why send me at all?"

"I had thought the first true objective was obvious," the Witch poured the powder into a pouch, and took the kettle away from the flames, pouring some of the water into a new cup, "This being your first excursion, I wanted to put your abilities to the test. Your skill as a fighter is undeniable, and your use of stealth and distraction demonstrates you are capable of forethought and strategy. Your snap decision making is also fairly impressive – all this in mind, you will serve excellently as my field operative."

"But my actions that night will have put Camelot – possibly on all of Britain – on edge," Morrigan pressed, "That wasn't a mere plot – that was an active invasion attempt that nearly resulted in the Princess' kidnapping. How are either of us supposed to operate when Camelot and its warriors are actively looking for enemies?"

Morgana couldn't suppress a smile at this, "Ah… now you've begun thinking in earnest. You're learning."

The Witch chuckled at the furrowing of the rider's brow, but made no comment on it. Instead, she set the pouch of herbs into the cup, "But perhaps you're looking at things from the wrong angles. Think about what you did that night. Consider how Britain's nobility and royalty will view your invasion as a lone operative, knowing nothing of what you are or what you can do. Consider _why_ I would _want_ Camelot looking for enemies."

Silence again. Morrigan's brow furrowed further. She brought a hand to her chin, eyes narrowing as she proceeded to play with these newly presented puzzle pieces, trying to put them together in a way that made sense and aligned with the Witch's ultimate goals.

"… the nobility… know nothing of what I am capable of. Yet I invaded Camelot, alone, with more than half of the Round Table present," she began, "… this… will either establish me as a dangerous, but unknown threat… or… it will indicate weakness within Camelot."

"Go on," Morgana encouraged, a pleased note in her voice.

"… you've told me about the tensions among the people. Not everyone is satisfied with the actions and behaviour of the current King," Morrigan continued, "In addition, you've successfully brought Agravain to heel, and between my invasion and news of King Hengest's possible betrayal, Camelot as a whole will be looking for enemies. If Camelot is fixated on enemies outside of its walls, it will not think to look among its own people for enemies, much less among the Round Table for them. Agravain is in a perfect position to begin undermining Arturia – and if Arturia is ever perceived as weak or unjust… as somehow fallible…"

The homunculus' eyes widened, and she fixed her gaze on the Witch once more.

"… you want to exacerbate tensions between Camelot and Britain's lesser Kings by painting Arturia and her regime as weak and mad. You want the lesser Kings to try and take their lands back from Arturia, and prove Camelot's suspicion of outer enemies to be true of their own volition… you want Britain to tear itself to pieces in civil war."

Morgana pulled the pouch from the tea… and gave her homunculus a small applause. It was neither condescending nor mocking – just a brief, few claps of the hands to voice the Witch's approval.

"Well done," Morgana's smile widened, "You've figured out the purpose of your first mission, Morrigan. It isn't the full extent of my plans by any means, and we have much work remaining – but you have begun laying the first layer of groundwork for the bloodiest war Britain will ever see."

Now, a smile had graced the homunculus' own features. She bowed, bringing a hand across her chest, "I apologize for taking such a furious tone with you, mother. I did not realize the full extent or impact of my mission that night, and I thank you for assisting me in understanding such."

"There is nothing to forgive," the Witch took a sip of her tea, "You were unaware and were yet to realize the importance of viewing the scenario in a more distant and calculating manner. Now, you have learned, and will be all the wiser for it."

Morrigan straightened, then frowned again, "… however, there is one more thing I am yet to understand. What role does your first homunculus have to play in this?"

At this, Morgana let out a sigh, taking another sip, "… Mordred was originally going to play a role in a very different set of plans. However, the night she was taken from me, I was forced to drastically alter them – as things are now, even if you _had_ succeeded in retrieving her, I would not be able to resume my original course of action."

"So you were merely taking advantage of her current role as Princess to give Camelot an image of vulnerability through my kidnapping attempt?" Morrigan asked, "No ulterior motive beyond that?"

"Yes," the mage nodded, "For now, I have no use for her as she is. If you had retrieved her, I might have been able to alter her growth so that you might have had a partner in two or three years, a fellow agent and another piece on our side of the board, but that was not the ultimate purpose of your mission. I have not given up entirely on retrieving Mordred, but she is not our priority right now."

"I see."

Another long sip of tea, "Nevertheless, we still have much work to do. I have a new mission for you."

Morrigan's smile returned, this time as a confident smirk, "Where shall Marzia and I go this time, mother?"

"This will be a multi-stage journey that will take you across Europe. First, I need you to go to Lundenwic – or perhaps you might know it better as Londinium, given your fondness for the Roman texts."

"And what am I to do?"

"Procure yourself a more fitting blade – don't think I didn't notice you breaking every sword you got your hands on. I want you to go to Lundenwic's North Gate; a man by the name of Nennius was buried there. Dig up his grave, and take what you find there."

"Very well. And after that?"

Morgana smiled, "After that, you will be going to Rome. With the Empire in its current state, it isn't liable to last much longer; the western half of it is in chaos, desperately trying to maintain its holdings. Many of its treasures are being sent east, where things are calmer, for safekeeping."

"And you want me to take these treasures?"

"Only one is of any true interest to you. Given its significance to Rome, I don't think they will move it until it's absolutely clear to them that the western Empire isn't going to survive. Nothing else is of any interest to me; I took what I wanted from Rome long ago."

"Will that be the entire trip?"

"No. Once you are finished in Rome, I want you to go to the Kingdom of Soissons, in northern Gaul."

"My objective?"

"We will discuss that later. For now, I think it would be best for you to let tonight's conversations sink in – and to begin making preparations for this journey. Once you leave, you will not be returning to Britain for some time; the flight itself will take weeks, and it may be years before you see this land again."

Morrigan bowed, "Then I shall go and begin charting my course."

The homunculus turned, and started for the door, grabbing her mask as she passed the counter.

"Morrigan?"

She stopped, turning on her heel to face Morgana once more, "Yes, mother?"

Morgana smiled, then pointed at the seat that had been toppled to the floor, "Please pick up your chair before you go."

The wyvern rider followed Morgana's finger to the chair; her smile faded to a look that was contrite, almost sheepish, as she wordlessly returned, and set the chair back on its legs by the table.

After that, she swept from the room, leaving the Witch to her thoughts.

* * *

One year. One Month. Ten days.

30,100 words.

82 pages.

NEVER. AGAIN. From now on chapters are going to be shorter as to prevent this sort of delay.

Speaking of... sorry for the delay everyone. We truly did try to get this out as soon as we could, but the scenes we set out for this chapter were already long... and kept getting longer. And longer. And longer. And this 82 page long DELUGE of word vomit is the result.

We cannot express how sorry we are, and we promise to never let this happen again. If things go wrong and we are put in a position where we cannot continue this story, we WILL update you.

Thank you for your patience.

Jarl of the North and Batomys2731

As a side note; yes, we are changing Galehaut's gender from the legend. This is par for the course as per Fate, but trust us - this isn't just for the sake of fanservice. We promise.


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